The Wild Rose's Thorn
by MsBarrows
Summary: Morrigan teaches Jowan shapeshifting magic so the nervous mage can better hide himself in mage-unfriendly places. With good timing, as the very next place they visit is Redcliffe Castle to revive the Arl. Rated M for m/m smutty bits. An Arren & Co. story.
1. The Gauntlet

It had been a long, hard fight through the ruined temple to reach the mountain top, and then an even worse one against the high dragon they found there. They were all exhausted afterwards, but Arren had insisted on pushing on in pursuit of the ashes; they'd wasted too much time in Orzammar, and he worried that every further day of delay now meant it was that much more likely that they'd return to Redcliffe too late to save Arl Eamon.

And so he pressed on, taking Sten, Zevran and Wynne with him, and leaving Alistair, Jowan, Morrigan and Oghren outside to recover. Mouse as well; the mabari had been knocked around a lot in the fight with the dragon, and was bruised and battered and in need of rest. He wasn't the only one; Alistair had taken quite a beating in the fight as well, and even after Wynne had worked her healing magics was feeling more than a little dizzy. Oghren had fared better for most of the fight, until he'd been knocked head over tail into a stone outcropping and knocked senseless. It could have been worse; it he hadn't of bounced off the stone, he'd have ended up in one of the seething pools of mineral water that ringed the plateau. Nevertheless, he too was quite content to lie down and have a breather – and more than a few drinks – while Arren and the others explored further.

The nice part about being injured, Alistair decided, was that it gave Jowan an excuse to look after him. Not that they actually _needed_ an excuse to be together, it wasn't like anyone in the party had the slightest illusions about the nature of the relationship the two men had forged over their weeks of travel together. But it was still nice to lay back and let the mage fuss over him. Which at the moment was involving resting his head in Jowan's lap while the mage massaged his temples, his hands glowing faintly with healing magic, as he soothed away the lingering headache left by a rather nasty cracked skull and concussion that Wynne had healed earlier.

"I could get used to this," Alistair said drowsily. "Having my very own healer."

Jowan snorted softly. "The way you fight sometimes, you almost need one just for yourself. If you're planning on taking on any more fire-spitting dragons, I suggest you get a bigger shield to hide behind. Or armour with better fire-repulsing qualities. Or better yet, find something else entirely to fight."

Alistair grinned. "That should be the only one," he said. "Well, until and unless the archdemon shows up and we get to try killing _that_," he corrected himself. "Though being an archdemon, I suspect it'll spit something worse than mere fire."

He could feel Jowan shiver slightly at his words. "Let's concentrate on more immediate foes for now," the mage suggested. "I hope we won't run into any more cultists on the way down the mountain," he said, and paused for a moment. "I... don't like killing people, even if they are trying to kill us," he finished softly.

Alistair grimaced. "Nor do I," he agreed. "Unfortunately they've not exactly given us much choice in the matter. No 'Hello, why don't we talk about this over tea', just 'Die, intruders!' and out come the swords and bows. And mages. I've never seen so many apostates in my life before. Don't take this wrong, but this is one place I think could have used a healthy dose of templars."

Jowan grunted. "I think I'd agree with you. Not if they were just living peacefully, not hurting others... but I saw what they had done to those knights of the Arl's. No one should die like that," he said softly, shuddering again.

Alistair rolled over and sat up, taking the mage's hands into his, and squeezed them comfortingly. Considering what he knew Jowan had undergone at the hands of some of the Arl's men when he'd been a prisoner at Redcliffe Castle, it was astonishing to him how sympathetic the mage could still be to any of them. It was, he knew, one of the things he loved about Jowan; the mage was, at heart, a very gentle and caring man. Which made it seem all the stranger that he'd actually studied blood magic; but even a gentle creature would fight back if in fear for its life, and Jowan, he knew, had grown up with an overwhelming fear of being made tranquil, of being cut off from all emotion, denied the use of the magic that he loved. He'd seen blood magic as a tool he could use to protect himself; he'd almost destroyed himself with it instead.

"If you two lovebirds have had quite enough of each other, I could use a hand with preparing a meal," Morrigan called out. She was hauling their stew pot out of the oversized backpack that it was normally carted around in by Sten.

"How are we going to even warm it up?" Alistair asked, climbing to his feet. "There's nothing to burn here but stone."

"Jowan or I could heat it with magic, if necessary," Morrigan pointed out. "But 'tis easier, I suspect, to just place it in one of these hot springs and let natural heat have its way."

"Oh, good idea," Alistair agreed. He lifted the lid and peered into the pot at the congealed mass of their never-ending stew. "Level is getting a little low, I suppose we should add some more stuff to it."

Morrigan nodded. "We have some more herbs and root vegetables we can add. Some meat would be good as well. A pity the dragon is so old; Flemeth told me the meat of young dragons is quite succulent, but one that old would need hours of simmering to be edible."

"Well, we did kill some younger ones in the caves," Jowan pointed out as he walked over to join the conversation.

"A good point," Morrigan said agreeably. "Alistair, why don't you go fetch one of the dragonlings, and Jowan and I shall take care of cleaning and adding the vegetables."

Jowan sighed. "My turn with peeling potatoes and carrots again, is it?" he said.

Morrigan smiled. "And turnips. And whatever that root Oghren found while searching that cellar for beer is."

"Parsnip, I think," Alistair said. "Unless it's horseradish. I don't really know how to tell them apart in the raw state."

"It's horseradish," Oghren called out in a slurred voice. "Smell it. And don't add more than a little of it to the stew, or we'll have to dump it all and start the stew from scratch again; it's strong stuff."

The two mages and Alistair took it in turn to sniff dubiously at the large white root, which proved to have a sharp scent quite different from the mild sweetness of parsnip, as well as a noticeably firmer, crisper flesh.

Alistair headed off to the cave in search of a dragonling corpse. By the time he'd returned with one, Oghren had taken over the cooking, and was busy stirring the pot, which was standing in one of the smaller hot springs, the steaming water bubbling around its sides.

Alistair started trying to skin the dragonling. He'd seen Arren and Zevran prepare game before, but it proved to be much more difficult than he'd expected. After a few minutes Oghren made a disgusted noise and shooed him away.

"It'll take care of it, boy," the dwarf growled. "Can't be any worse than preparing a nug for the pot."

Alistair left the dwarf to it, and wandered over to where Morrigan and Jowan were sitting talking together.

"...it's not all that difficult to learn new forms, once you've mastered your first one," Morrigan was saying. "And the feeling of freedom is glorious."

Alistair sat down nearby. "What are you talking about, and can I join in?" he asked.

Jowan laughed. "Shape-changing. I was telling Morrigan how envious I was of her ability to take different animal forms."

Alistair smiled and nodded enthusiastically. "Me, too... seeing you flying around as a hawk makes me jealous of your abilities, you know," he told her. "Especially when you do something all dramatic like stooping down from way up high, and you're going so _fast_... it's beautiful!"

Morrigan looked pleased by his reaction. "'Tis one of my favourite forms," she said agreeably. "Though hard to maintain, since as a hawk I am so small. There is a strain to being so much smaller than your normal size; 'tis hard to fold yourself into a space so tiny, and harder yet to maintain your own thoughts and intelligence within a brain so narrow-focused and instinct-driven. Larger, smarter animals are easier."

"Do you think I could learn to shape-shift?" Jowan asked wistfully. "It would be nice to be able to hide in plain sight like you can. Especially if we encounter more templars. I mean, I have travel papers now and everything," he said, fingers unconsciously reaching to touch the pouch on his belt where they were. "But they still scare me. And I'm sure there's other uses to being able to change shape."

"Perhaps," Morrigan said thoughtfully. "You are certainly powerful enough to learn to maintain the magic for it. The main issue will be learning an animal well enough that you can _become_ one. Flemeth put me to studying wolves for several months before teaching me how to shift and become one. But as I was saying, it does get easier after you learn the trick of it. I suppose we can at least start in on the theory; that alone will take some time to teach."

Jowan just about glowed with happiness. "Thank you, Morrigan, I would certainly appreciate the chance to learn it," he said appreciatively.

She smiled warmly at him. "'Tis nothing," she said. "I believe there is a section in my mother's grimoire that deals with it. Let me fetch that, and you may study it to begin."

* * *

><p>Arren and the others eventually emerged from the depths of the temple, looking tired and drained. Arren in particular looked... almost heartbroken, Alistair thought, and wasn't surprised to see the elf withdraw after a silent the meal, to sit at a distance with Morrigan, the two leaning together and talking quietly.<p>

"What happened in there?" he asked Zevran.

Zevran looked almost equally tired and worn. "A lot. There was very little fighting, but we encountered... reminders of our separate pasts. It is a place called the Gauntlet, and you must pass through it to reach where Andraste's ashes lie. As he was our leader, one of the encounters was a ghost from Arren's past. Someone he had loved very much, judging by how pained the encounter left him. Someone he felt he had failed," he added softly, looking away. "We all had to confront past failures in there. It was not an easy passage."

Alistair nodded, and wondered what past failure Zevran had been confronted with. He didn't dare ask, not with him looking almost as haunted as Arren had. Of those who had gone into this "Gauntlet" with Arren, only Sten seemed unaffected, his expression still set in its usual stoic grimace. Wynne had eaten a bowl of stew and gone to roll up in her bedroll, back turned to the rest of them.

Jowan looked up at Alistair, then over at Zevran. "If... you'd rather not be alone tonight, move your bedroll over by ours," he offered. Alistair nodded in rapid agreement. They _owed _Zevran, since Orzammar, and as tired and sore as everyone was tonight, it wasn't like they'd planned to do anything other than sleep anyway.

Zevran gave them a weak half-smile in return. "Thank you," he said. "I will take you up on that. The experience has left all of us feeling rattled, I think."

Alistair had first watch of the night. He smiled when he went to lie down after waking Sten, and found Jowan lying spooned protectively around the elf, their blankets a muddled nest around the two them. He quietly slipped in beside Jowan, drawing a blanket up over all three of them, and draped his own arm over both of them before falling asleep himself.


	2. Transformation

Alistair found Zevran walking beside him the next few days instead of Jowan; his mage was up at the front of the group with Arren and Morrigan while the witch taught him what she could about the theory of shape-changing. In the evenings Jowan was unusually quiet, thinking over everything he'd learned each day and trying to assimilate it with everything else he knew of magic.

Zevran, too, was unusually quiet; Arren and Wynne as well, all three seemingly still deeply affected by their experiences in the Gauntlet, only Sten remaining unperturbed, at least on the surface. Alistair did note that the giant was placing his bedroll closer to the fire, and lingering a little longer after their meals than had been his normal habit until now. It wasn't until their third day after leaving Haven, as they reached the low-lying hills around the south-western shore of the lake, that the four who'd entered the Gauntlet finally resumed their normal demeanour.

Jowan, on the other hand, grew even quieter as they travelled closer and closer to Redcliffe Castle. Alistair could understand why; he'd committed crimes there. And paid for them, with imprisonment and torture in the dungeons buried deep in the rock under the keep. He'd poisoned the man they were on their way there to save; killed his wife, too, in the blood magic ritual that had saved the man's son from possession by a desire demon. It could not be an easy place for him to return to.

Which undoubtedly explained his current almost obsessive interest with learning Morrigan's shape-shifting skills; they couldn't exactly leave him out here on his own, after all, but if he could change shape, he might be able to hide in plain sight somewhere close by; a hawk on the wing like Morrigan could be would hardly be noticed, after all.

So each day as they travelled, or when they stopped for rests or meals, Jowan was studying the local wildlife with an almost ferocious level of concentration; any animal that came close to their camp was studied intently. Seagulls, crows, a rabbit – until Arren shot it to add to the stew pot – even a cow wandering lost were all subjects for Jowan to study.

"I wish I could figure out how to make this magic _work_," Jowan said in frustration while they were setting up camp one evening. Their last camp before reaching the castle, unless Alistair was mistaken as to just how close they were now, and he was pretty sure he wasn't; he'd started recognizing landmarks a couple hours ago, and had never been further than a half-day's travel from the castle in his childhood. Apart from the couple of times he'd been to Denerim, anyway. So by mid-day tomorrow, they should be there.

"What does the spell involve, anyway?" Alistair asked curiously as he rolled stones into a ring in the middle of a hastily cleared area of dirt. Jowan was building a pile of tinder and chunks of wood in the middle of the ring.

"Well, you have to sort of hold a picture of the animal in your head; not just the way they look, but _everything_ you possibly can about how they act, too. And if your understanding of the animal is strong enough, then you can... sort of fit yourself into the shape one makes in the world, and then you _become_ one."

"What happens to all the extra bits?" Alistair asked, frowning. "I mean, Morrigan is a lot bigger as a human than she is as a hawk, right? Where does the extra... _stuff_... where does it go?"

"I'm not really sure. _Elsewhere_. Keeping it elsewhere so you're not a hawk as big as a human is why being smaller is harder, Morrigan says," Jowan explained. "But once you get the trick of it, it gets easier to manage, and the more animals you learn well enough to change into, the easier they get to learn; the same few things drive them all, it's just a case of learning how their drives manifest."

"Huh. Like... like how everything needs to eat, and sleep, and breathe, and breed?"

"More or less, yes," Jowan said approvingly. "And how they move. Things like that."

Jowan had the fire going now. Alistair dug the stew pot out and hauled it over, putting it down on a large flat rock they'd put in the firepit ahead of time as a rest for it. "Getting low again," he noted after lifting the lid and looking inside. "We have anything left to add to the pot?"

"No, not until we can restock at the village or castle. Unless someone comes back with some game to add, anyway."

"Mmm, better add water and have soup tonight then," Alistair suggested.

"That would work. Oh, I think there's some flour left, I might be able to make dumplings out of those. Or panbread."

"Do panbread, at least if it goes wrong it won't spoil the stew. Soup. Whatever."

Jowan laughed. "Fine, I'll make panbread," he agreed. "Find the spider for me, will you? I think it went into either Oghren's or your pack after breakfast this morning."

"Will do," Alistair agreed, and wandered off in search of the unwieldy three-legged frying pan.

* * *

><p>The panbread was a little flat and slightly scorched, but every crumb of it was eaten. Though Jowan suspected a fair amount of it had gone to Mouse, Arren's mabari, and that dog would eat <em>anything<em>. Well, almost anything. He was smart enough to leave darkspawn corpses strictly alone.

Since they'd cooked, it was someone else's duty to clean; Alistair and Jowan took the opportunity to walk a little way out from the camp, sitting down on the hillside with a clump of low brushes screening them from view; at least the illusion of privacy. Jowan sat in Alistair's lap, facing away from him, Alistair's arms wrapped warm and comforting around him, his chin resting on the mage's shoulder.

"You need to shave again," Jowan said.

"So do you," Alistair pointed out. "It can wait until morning, so I look all civilized when we reach the castle." He felt Jowan tense in his arms. "You'll be fine," he said softly. "You're one of us now; Arren won't give you up, and neither will I."

"I just hope it's that easy," Jowan said uneasily. "I'm scared of going back there. Scared I'll end up locked up in the dungeon again, in the dark..."

His breath was going short, and Alistair could feel him shivering with strain. "Shhhh, it'll be okay," he soothed. "I promise, _no one_ is putting you in a dungeon. Not unless they knock me out first and lock me up too."

Jowan laughed shakily. "That doesn't sound quite as reassuring as you probably meant it to be," he pointed out. "You're not invincible, you know. None of us are."

"I suppose that did sound a little better in my head than it did coming out of my mouth," Alistair agreed cheerfully. "Just remember that anyone that wants you would have to take out all of us to get their hands on you."

"Right. I still wish I could get the hang of this shape-changing magic. Morrigan says she was studying wolves for _months_ before she finally changed into one. Travelling all the time like we are, when am I ever going to get the time to study an animal that thoroughly, so that I know it well enough to change into one," he said despairingly.

"Yeah, apart from the occasional very short-lived rabbit, it's not like we spend much time around animals. Well, rabbits and Mouse."

"Mouse..." Jowan said, and went very still. "Alistair, you're a genius."

"Hmmm? What'd I say?" he asked.

"Let me think..." Jowan said, and scrambled to his feet. He paced back and forth, then abruptly sat down again, hands pressed over his eyes, muttering to himself.

"What...!" Alistair said.

"Shhh!" Jowan ordered, and fell silent, a look of concentration on his face. For a several minutes nothing at all happened. And then there was a brief shimmer, and a mabari was occupying the spot where Jowan had been; a very _large_ mabari, with a coat as black as night – as black as Jowan's hair had been – and contrastingly pale grey eyes that gave the hound a very fierce look. It grinned, baring lengthy, gleaming fangs.

"Andraste's _arse!_" Alistair exclaimed. "Jowan!"

The hound jumped to his feet, the doggish grin widening, hindquarters and stub of tail wagging ferociously. He gave a single happy bark.

Which was immediately answered by a veritable storm of barking from the direction of camp, and the sound of a heavy body charging towards them. Mouse barrelled out of the bushes and came to an abrupt stop. The two hounds stood staring at each other, Mouse growling threateningly at what he obviously believed was an intruder, Jowan tensing in response to the other hound's aggressive stance.

Arren barrelled into sight just steps behind his hound, his sword already unlimbered, come to see what had set off Mouse, with Morrigan and the others not far behind.

"It's okay! It's all right! It's just Jowan!" Alistair hastily exclaimed. "He turned himself into a mabari! Errr... sit, boy," he said, and Jowan promptly obeyed.

Arren grinned, leaning the tip of his sword against the ground. "You might have warned us," he scolded the pair. "Down, Mouse – it's just one of the mages doing something silly again."

Mouse gave a final growl, then relaxed, trusting that his elf knew what he was doing.

"Sorry, it was a little... spur of the moment, as far as I know. I don't know if Jowan even really expected it to work."

"Just what we need, a second hound," Morrigan said, and sniffed disdainfully. "'Tis hardly a noble beast our friend Jowan has become. Though at least I suppose he will usually smell better than Mouse does, as the mage actually _bathes_," she added dryly.

Arren's grin widened. "Most Fereldans would argue that a mabari is a very noble beast indeed. And _I_ think it's a brilliant choice of form. Who in Ferelden is going to take a second look at a warrior accompanied by a mabari – or think twice about why he talks to it as if he's expecting a response? Perfectly normal behaviour in these parts."

Alistair blinked, then grinned. "You're right. This is a bloody perfect form for Jowan, isn't it?" he said enthusiastically, smiling proudly at the shape-changed mage.

"Maker save us from Fereldans and their love of dogs," Oghren growled. "Well, if it's a false alarm, I'm getting back to my bedroll. There's a bottle of White Shear with my name on it that I was in the middle of getting acquainted with."

The dwarf left, Wynne and Sten following. Morrigan was looking appraisingly at Jowan.

"He does make a fine hound," she reluctantly agreed. "Certainly a healthy specimen of the breed. And you are right, Arren, as a disguise I can think of few better forms he could use to hide in plain sight. The only question that now remains is how long he can maintain it without tiring. I would expect not very long to start, but he should improve with practise, and eventually be able to hold the form for as long as he wishes to."

Jowan looked at her, head tilting slightly to one side, and gave a questioning bark.

She smiled. "Yes, you might surprise me. You already have, I certainly did not expect you to master the shape-shifting magic this quickly. And yet clearly you have. Well done, Jowan."

"So, um, what should we do now?" Alistair asked.

Morrigan shrugged. "Let him practise being a dog. I would suggest the two of you and Mouse go for a walk, so that Jowan may learn from an existing expert how to act as a hound does." she said, and turned and walked back off in the direction of camp. Arren turned his head to watch her go, then looked back at Alistair and Jowan again, an amused smile on his lips.

"Well done, Jowan," he said to the mage. "This will certainly make our upcoming visit to Redcliffe a little easier. Alistair, the two of you need to come up with a name to use for Jowan when he's a hound; I don't know how well his disguise would hold up if anyone who knows we left with a black-haired, grey-eyed mage noticed your grey-eyed black mabari had the same name. I'd expect Bann Teagan at least to get more than a little suspicious; he's a smart man."

Alistair nodded agreement. "We'll think up something," he agreed.

"Good. Well, enjoy your walk with the hounds. Mouse, be a good boy, stay with Alistair and Jowan for now."

His hound sneezed and sat down, stub of a tail twitching. Arren lifted his sword, easily returning the massive two-hander to its sheath on his back, and strode off after Morrigan.

Alistair sighed and sat down. "Well, that got a little exciting for a bit, didn't it?" he said, and looked at the two hounds. They were both sitting upright, looking attentively at him. Jowan, he was surprised to notice, was noticeably larger than Mouse, who was a fairly large specimen of the breed to begin with. Apparently the mage's small size as a human had no relation to his relative size within another species. As a mabari he was verging on the monstrously large end of the breed. That coupled with the eerie contrast between his pale grey eyes and thick black coat gave him a very dangerous look. Alistair bet he'd look downright _evil_ if he was snarling. Mouse, in comparison, with the dark eyes, countershaded grey coat and creamy white underbelly that had occasioned his name, looked almost as harmless as his namesake. At least if you didn't know his personality, which like most mabari tended more to 'enthusiastically destructive' than 'mostly harmless'.

"Why don't you two, err... get acquainted, while I catch my breath," he suggested. "And then we'll go for a walk."


	3. Scents and Sounds

Jowan had found the first few minutes of being a hound the hardest to get used to. Everything was so _different_; the way he saw, the way he heard noises, the way things smelled. The way he moved, too. When Mouse came charging out of the bushes at him, he was almost overwhelmed by the rush of sense and emotion the other dog's presence evoked; the complex cloud of smells around the other hound just begged to be smelled, while at the same time his stance was a threat, he growl a warning away which Jowan longed to answer in kind, defending his human. _His human_... yes, Alistair was certainly that, when he himself was a hound. He barely noticed the approach of the others at first, caught up as he was in the rush of warm, protective emotion the thought brought to him.

"Sit, boy!" he heard Alistair say, and found himself obeying without even thinking about it.

Mouse stood down at a word from his elf. Jowan struggled to pay attention to what the people were saying when what he really wanted to do was go over and get a better smell at the intriguing cloud of odours surrounding the other dog. Listening to Alistair was easy, some inner part of him seemed to prick up its ears and pay close attention any time his human spoke. And he could hear Morrigan's words quite clearly, it was the rest that faded away on him, his mind wanting to pay more attention to movement and smells than to sounds.

It got easier once several of them left, reducing the distractions. And then Morrigan and Mouse's elf – _Arren_ – left, and it was just Alistair and Mouse and him.

Alistair sat down, sighed. "Well, that got a little exciting for a bit, didn't it?" he asked, then ran one hand through his hair. ""Why don't you two, err... get acquainted, while I catch my breath," he suggested.

Jowan and Mouse immediately rose to their feet, and moved closer together, sniffing curiously at each other. Jowan nervously turned away as Mouse's nose got close to sensitive bits, even as he drank in the scents of Mouse's body. He was surprised at how much he learned about the other dog just from smell alone; how healthy he was, that he was well-fed and had recently eaten, that he travelled a lot and got to find lots of interesting stinks to roll in.

Mouse's nose got a bit too obtrusive again and he snapped warningly at the other hound.

"Come here, Jowan," Alistair called, and Jowan darted over to him, almost knocking him over backwards into the bushes, and licked at his face. Alistair laughed and fended him off. "Down, boy!"

He sat promptly, trying to stay still and almost vibrating with how excited and full of energy he was feeling. Alistair grinned and leaned forward, and started scratching him behind the ears, and oh _Maker_ that felt so good! He leaned into the pressure of Alistair's fingers, growling in approval.

Mouse trotted over and stood beside Jowan, and whined softly. Alistair laughed, and reached out with his other hand to scratch him behind the ears too.

"All right, let's go for a walk," Alistair finally said, dropping his hands so he could push himself up from his seated position. Mouse took off running, and Jowan chased after him, quickly overtaking the smaller dog. Then Mouse abruptly reversed directions, dashing back to where Alistair was following after them at a walking pace. Jowan almost tumbled head-over-heels in his own effort to turn around and chase after him, and once he'd sorted himself out he looked over and saw a big grin on Alistair's face. He was _laughing_ at him. It made Jowan happy, and he found himself bouncing around in circles, snapping at thin air in his excitement.

Mouse made it back to Alistair and crouched, head and forequarters lowered and fiercely wagging hindquarters up in the air. He barked, once, and Jowan realized he could understand the other mabari as easily as if he'd spoken aloud just now; he was asking Alistair to play with them. And Alistair obviously understood Mouse too, because he laughed, looked around, and picked up a stick. Jowan froze, ears and head lifting high, just about vibrating with tension as he watched Alistair wind up, then throw the stick. And then he and Mouse were off, racing full-bore after it as it flew through the air and bounced end-over-end along the ground.

He snapped at it and missed, then Mouse was there, tumbling over on one shoulder as he caught the stick. He bounced back to his feet, and pranced back to Alistair, hindquarters wagging furiously, head lifted proudly, projecting "Mine! My stick! Mine!".

Jowan got the stick on the next toss, and felt ridiculously pleased with himself as he carried it back to Alistair. The three of them played fetch until both hounds were getting tired of the game, then Alistair called them to heel and they just walked together for a long time, the hounds occasionally dashing ahead or to one side or the other to investigate interesting sounds or smells. Jowan completely lost track of time, just enjoying being a mabari, exploring and talking with Mouse – as much as hounds did communicate with each other, which was mainly a matter of constant body language flowing back and forth between them, keeping each other appraised of everything of interest that they saw or smelled or heard, like a doubled stream-of-consciousness, so that when they both pricked up their ears and stared intently at a tree to watch a squirrel chattering angrily at them, he could no longer have said which of them had noticed it first, Mouse or himself, each of them responding almost perfectly in sync to each other's signals.

It was getting quite dark by the time they returned to camp. They were almost back to the clearing, Jowan's sharpened hearing easily picking up the sounds of the people gathered there, the scent of the still-smouldering fire, when a wave of dizziness passed over him, and he found himself human again, sprawled on the ground on his hands and knees. With a groan he lay down, folding his arms under his head. He could feel Mouse anxiously whuffling through his hair, and heard Alistair, who'd been trailing a few lengths behind them, hurrying forward.

"Jowan? Are you okay?" he asked.

Jowan laughed, and tiredly rolled over on his back, grinning happily. "Yes. Just suddenly very, _very_ tired. That took a lot of energy. By the Maker...! How long was I a hound!" he asked.

Alistair smiled, moving to sit cross-legged on the ground beside him, picking up his hand and holding it. "Two or three hours, I think. Pretty good for a first try, I bet. What was it like? You looked like you were having a lot of fun."

"I was," Jowan said, and sat up, laughing as Mouse nosed under his arm between the two of them and sniffed excitedly at his face. "Down, Mouse! Yes, we'll do that again soon – tomorrow. Go let Arren know we're back and fine, okay?"

The hound nosed into Jowan's ribs a final time, then hurried off, head and tail both held high.

Jowan smiled warmly at Alistair. "It was... well, fun barely covers it. Morrigan had told me, but I didn't really _understand_ it until I was experiencing it... animals are so incredibly instinct-driven. Unless I was concentrating hard, I did very little thinking, just a lot of reacting to everything around me. And everything was so _different_... the whole way I sensed the world was changed. The way things looked, sounded, smelled, what felt important to pay attention to and what I wanted to automatically ignore... it _all_ changed. And the way it _felt_, especially the smells and the running... the running felt _so good_. And _you_, knowing you were _my_ human and I was your hound," he added, grin widening. "I don't think humans realize what a gift it is when a mabari bonds to them. Well, the good ones do, I guess. It's rather like being in love, only... fiercer. More possessive. If anything threatened you I'd have tried to kill it without a second thought. Unless you told me not to, anyway."

Alistair smiled. "That does rather sound like how I feel about you; wanting to protect you from any threats," he said softly, almost shyly.

Jowan grinned back at him. "Me too. Even as just a human," he said. "I don't think I say it to you often enough, Alistair... but I love you."

Alistair smiled, and rose to his feet, holding out his hand to help Jowan to his as well. "I know. I love you, too," he said, and then hugged him tightly. "More then I'd ever have believed possible."

Jowan smiled again, and hugged him back. They walked slowly back to the campsite, an arm around each other's waist.


	4. Redcliffe Castle

Alistair felt more than a little nervous crossing the bridge from the mainland out to where Redcliffe Castle perched on its offshore island. Not just because of Jowan was trotting along in mabari form at his heels, but also because he was worried about what state they'd find Arl Eamon in, and how things would go once they'd cured him. _If_ they succeeded in curing him, that is; there was no guarantee that the ashes would work as they hoped, as legend claimed they would.

A guardsman escorted them into the Great Hall, where they found Bann Teagan standing talking with the guard captain. He saw them and a look of relief washed across his face. He said a final word to the captain, dismissing him, then hurried over to greet them.

"Arren, Alistair... I'm go glad to see you both again. And all your companions," he added, making a shallow half-bow toward Morrigan, Wynne, Sten, and Oghren.

"How is your brother the Arl?" Arren asked.

"He is holding on. I beg of you, tell me, have you found any hope of a cure for him?" Teagan asked anxiously.

"We found the Urn of Andraste," Alistair informed him. "We've brought back a pinch of the ashes. If that does not save him, nothing will."

"Oh, thank the Maker!" Teagan exclaimed. "I have a healer standing by to attempt to use them to heal him. Please, follow me," he urged, and turned and hurried off toward the family quarters upstairs. Alistair and Arren hurried along in his wake, the rest of their party – including the two mabari hounds – accompanying them.

* * *

><p>The look an Arl Eamon's face when he heard of Isolde's death would haunt Alistair for some time, he knew. By the way Jowan was pressed up against his leg, ears lowered and tail pressed between his legs, he too was aware of the desolation in the Arl's face at the news that his beloved wife had died.<p>

Arren quickly excused himself and his party, and they withdrew back downstairs to the Great Hall. They were joined there some little time later by Bann Teagan.

"My brother will join us in a while," he told them quietly. "He needs some time to grieve, first, and to compose himself. This has all come as a great shock to him; I'm not sure he really believes it all yet. Not Isolde's death, nor what I had to tell him of events here at the castle and the village while he was unconscious. He fell asleep a happily married man, Arl of a thriving Arling, and woke a widower with more than half his people grievously dead. I fear it will be some days before it truly sinks in."

Arren nodded understandingly. "How have things been here while we were away? I'm sorry it took us so long to return; while tracking down Brother Genitivi we ended up sidetracked into Orzammar and spent far longer dealing with things there than I'd expected. I thought we'd only be there a day or two; it ended up taking several weeks," he explained with a grimace.

"We heard some rumour of that here, recently – you crowned a new king for them, did you not?"

Arren nodded solemnly. "Yes, King Bhelen Aeducan. He has promised us support in combating the darkspawn."

Oghren spoke up. "If you have any dealings with the dwarves, watch your pocket – and your back. Bhelen's a shifty one."

Teagan nodded, looking at the dwarf curiously. "I don't believe we've met before – you're new to Arren's party since he was last here?" he asked questioningly.

Oghren nodded. "Name's Oghren. I joined up with the elf and his friends when they visited Orzammar. Didn't have any reason to stay behind afterwards, so I decided I might as well stick with him for a while, see a bit of the surface."

"Pleased to meet you," Teagan said, carefully formal as always, then looked curiously at the remainder of their party. "I hesitate to ask... but what has become of the mage you left here with? I had to explain his role in events to my brother, of course; Eamon is going to want to know what became of him. If he was still here, I suspect my brother would invoke judgement against him as Arl and have him put to death for his part in matters here."

Arren spoke up immediately. "We took him to the Circle of Magi. Greagoir and Irving decided it was wisest to put him through his harrowing – he was still an apprentice mage, apparently. He survived it, rather to their surprise, and is now a member of the Circle again. If your brother wishes him punished, he will have to appeal to them; the mage falls within their jurisdiction, not his."

"Of course. I'll tell my brother so," Teagan said, bowing in thanks to the elf.

Alistair admired Arren's answer; truthful, yet somehow still leaving the impression that Jowan was not with them, but instead immured at Kinloch Hold. Arren really had a knack for diplomacy; he was glad the elf had answered, if he'd tried he was sure he'd have just made a mess of things.

"Well, while we wait for my brother, why don't we sit down and eat – or did you have your lunch before arriving here?"

"No, we've been on the road without stopping since breakfast," Arren said. "We'd be pleased to enjoy the hospitality of you and your brother."

Teagan looked pleased, and quickly sent a servant off to notify the kitchen. They were soon sitting down to a sizable lunch, Teagan at one end of the long table, with Arren and Alistair to either side of him, and Morrigan and Zevran to either side of them. Sten sat by Zevran, towering over the elf, with Wynne at the far end of the table, and Oghren between her and Morrigan. Mouse sat on the floor between Teagan and Arren, and Jowan sat where both Alistair and Zevran could feed him tidbits of their food. Zevran did most of the feeding; Alistair was too busy feeding himself, he and Arren both making the usual vast inroads on the food that their Grey Warden metabolisms demanded.

Thankfully with them so obviously busy eating, Teagan kept his questions about their recent exploits to a minimum, instead carrying much of the conversation himself by bringing them up to date on events in the village and castle since their departure. By the sound of it, Alistair thought, he'd been working himself to the bone to keep his brother's demesne going while Eamon was comatose. It couldn't have been an easy job, especially with so many of those who'd normally do the lion's share of the work dead or missing – Eamon's Seneschal, most of his stewards, the majority of his knights, and so forth – and Teagan with no real authority to appoint people to take their places. He had made a couple of cautious temporary appointments – reliant, of course, on Eamon's approval once he recovered – since it had been a choice between that, or vital work going undone.

After eating, they remained at the table, drinking ale and talking. Arren supplied most of the conversation, talking about everything they'd done since leaving Redcliffe. He did a remarkably good job of avoiding any mention at all of Jowan, Alistair noticed, and finally felt himself relaxing. The mage had his head resting on Alistair's leg, while Alistair scratched him idly behind the ears. Mouse was getting a similar treatment from Bann Teagan, and making the most of it, whining appreciatively and turning his head almost upside down as he encouraged the bann to scratch a particularly itchy spot on his jaw.

"He's shedding grey hairs all over your clothing," Arren pointed out, sounding amused. "And if you don't look out he'll be drooling a puddle all over your thigh in a moment."

Teagan laughed. "I'll survive it. Anyway, I knew what I was getting into when I started scratching a mabari; I have met more than a few of them before, you know," he said, eyes twinkling cheerfully. "And your Mouse is a lovely hound. Quite well trained, too, or so I heard from Ser Perth – he was very enthusiastic in his descriptions about how good a job your hound did at dismembering skeletons."

Arren smiled. "Like all hounds, he enjoys playing with bones."

That got a laugh from Teagan, then he nodded toward Jowan. "I see you've acquired another mabari since you were last here. He's magnificent; I've seen very few that large. Is he bound to you, Alistair?"

Alistair smiled affectionately down at the mabari. "Yes, he is," he agreed.

"Such striking eyes, too. What's his name?"

"Briar," Alistair answered easily, the name he and Jowan had settled on after much debate the night before. He'd wanted to call him something like 'Barkspawn' or 'Barksley' or 'Ser Loin', but Jowan would have nothing of it. He'd at least considered the name 'Warden' before turning it down as well, on the grounds that it was too confusing, given how many people referred to Arren by that name already.

Teagan nodded approvingly. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Briar," he said. Jowan raised his head and barked politely at the man, then leaned his head heavily against Alistair's arm.

Before the conversation about hounds could continue further, Arl Eamon strode into the room. He looked old, Alistair found himself thinking – old and tired. Then the man spotted them and drew himself up, becoming more his old self; looking fully in control and ready to do things. He strode over, as they all rose to their feet, and then Teagan performed introductions, explaining with a few words who each of them was.

Arl Eamon listening silently, bowing to each in turn, then at the end turned back to Arren again, and bowed formally to him.

"Grey Warden, I know you did what you had to. I grieve for Isolde, but I believe that had you not acted as you did, it might have been far worse. I am in your debt. Will you permit me to offer you a reward for your service?"

"Thank you, but I need no reward," Arren said courteously. "I merely did what had to be done."

"Know that you have my thanks even so," the Arl replied, with a gracious nod. "Teagan, can you bring me up to date on events since my unfortunate... lapse... began?"

Teagan nodded and gave a lengthy rundown of events beyond Redcliffe since Arl Eamon had fallen ill; he seemed remarkably well-informed, and much of the minutia of political maneuverings he mentioned had little meaning to Alistair, but was obviously significant in some way judging by the seriousness of Arl Eamon's expression as he absorbed it all. Eventually Teagan returned to names Alistair recognized, and news that he could understand the import of. Such as word of Teryn Loghain's most recent activities, aided by Arl Rendon Howe. Finally Teagan's recitation came to an end.

"We have no time to wage a campaign against the Teryn," Eamon said, frowning in thought. "Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn. I will spread word of Loghain's treachery, both here and against the king. But it will be but a claim made without proof. Those claims will give Loghain's allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain's daughter, the queen."

Bann Teagan frowned. "Are you referring to Alistair, Brother? Are you certain?"

"I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative. But the unthinkable has occurred. We have little choice... Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain. Alistair's claim is by blood. He is King Maric's illegitimate son. He is Cailan's half-brother and has a claim to Ferelden's throne. Ferelden deserves to have a Theirin on the throne... not this common-born usurper or his viper of a daughter."

"I have no interest in becoming king," Alistair said firmly. "I am a Grey Warden. That is all the title I ever desire to carry."

"You have a responsibility, Alistair. Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?" Eamon asked sharply, then continued talking before Alistair could respond. "I see only one way to proceed. I will call for a Landsmeet, a gathering of all of Ferelden's nobility in the city of Denerim. There, Ferelden can decide who shall rule, one way or another. Then the business of fighting our true foe can begin."

"It will take some time to recall my forces and organize our allies," he continued, and turned to look expectantly at Arren. "In the meantime, I suggest you pursue the remainder of the Grey Warden treaties Teagan told me of. We will need all the allies we can get if we are to defeat the darkspawn horde."

Arren was frowning slightly, but nodded in agreement. "We have already secured agreement from the Circle of Magi and the dwarfs of Orzammar," he said. "I'd like to take some time to resupply, and rest overnight, then tomorrow we will depart for the Brecilian Forest to locate the Dalish."

"Of course," Arl Eamon said graciously. "I'll arrange for rooms for you all. Teagan, could you please oversee their reprovisioning? I believe I should go and spend some time with Connor. He is sadly changed, and I mislike that he will have to be sent to the Tower so soon," he said regretfully. "He and I will barely have time to talk before he must leave. A word with you as I go," he added.

"Of course, brother," Teagan agreed, and followed him over to the door, talking quietly to him a moment before returning to where Arren and his group waited. "He asked after the mage, as I thought he would," he said. "I told him what you'd said about Jowan being in the jurisdiction of the tower now. He is not pleased. I suspect he'll spend part of this evening writing a letter to Knight-Commander Greagoir, to go with Connor to the tower tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Alistair asked, startled. "You mean arrangements have already been made?"

"Yes," Teagan said tiredly. "After the events that took place here, the chantry made it clear that Connor was to be sent to the tower as soon as reasonably possible; a templar is being sent to take him there, and should arrive tomorrow morning. At least my brother woke in time to see Connor beforehand. I don't know how I'd have explained it to him if Connor was already gone. It's a heavy blow for him, loosing his wife to blood magic and his heir to the Circle," he said, then shook his head and straightened up. "Right. Reprovisioning. What do you need?"

"Food, mainly. Potions. Some time with a proper smith to repair some of our gear," Arren said.

Teagan nodded. "No problem. Let me find a servant to show everyone else to the guest rooms first, and then we'll start rounding up everything."

Arren nodded agreement, and in a remarkably short time Alistair found himself settled in a small guest room, with nothing to do until supper that evening. He stripped out of his armour, threw himself down on the bed, and sighed in relief. A moment later he smiled, as Briar shimmered and turned back into Jowan. He moved sideways and patted the spot beside him, and Jowan gratefully joined him on the too-narrow bed.

"Tired?" Alistair asked as the mage snuggled up against him.

"Exhausted. I'm fine while I'm a hound, but once I switch back... it all catches up to me. I'm going to need a nap if I have to put in another appearance during dinner."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Alistair said, then grimaced. "Let me just make sure I locked the door; we wouldn't want anyone walking in and discovering two men where they were expecting a man and a mabari."

Jowan snorted softly in amusement as Alistair clambered past him to get off the bed and go check. By the time he'd dropped the bar in its braces and returned to the bed, the mage was already drifting off to sleep. Alistair smiled, and snuggled up next to him. He'd nap too, and maybe tonight they'd both feel well enough rested to take some time to enjoy the luxury of a real bed again

Jowan rolled over, and opened his eyes, frowning in puzzlement. "Alistair..."

"Yes?"

"Was I hearing things wrong while I was a mabari, or did the Arl want you to be _king?_"


	5. An Uncomfortable Meal

Alistair groaned. "Oh, Maker... I forgot to mention that little detail, didn't I? Remember I told you I'm a bastard?"

"Yes?"

"I'm a royal bastard. King Maric was my father."

There was a brief silence, then the mage sat bolt upright, staring at Alistair in disbelief. "_What!_" he exclaimed.

"Shhh! Not so loud. Someone will hear you," Alistair hissed. "Come on, lie down. I'll... I'll tell you all about it. I probably should have before," he added, sounding miserable.

Jowan eyed him suspiciously, but allowed the warrior to coax him into lying down again. Alistair squirmed around until he was partially draped over the mage, his face buried in Jowan's long hair.

"I... don't like telling people this," he admitted softly. "It's always been a bad thing in the past when people have found out who my father was. It changes how they look at me. They stop seeing _me_, and see... some picture in their head, instead. And they think I'm putting on airs, or that I'm someone they might be able to use, or... or someone to look down on, all for an accident of birth. _You_ know what that's like," he said softly.

Jowan nodded slowly. "Yes," he agreed.

Alistair was quiet for a minute, then spoke again. "It's not that I didn't trust you to know, or anything like that. When we came here the last time... I told Arren and them, just before we reached the village. Because I couldn't _not _tell them any longer. Arren was a little put out with me for not telling him sooner," he said, sounding just faintly amused. "Thankfully he got over it fairly quickly. And it didn't change how he treats me, which believe me was a nice change. Anyway, after we added you to the party, I just... it never occurred to me, until just now, that I never told you either. I'm sorry."

Jowan turned his head to look at him. "You're forgiven," he whispered, and brushed his lips against Alistair's ear, the only part of him currently in reach. Alistair laughed softly, and turned his head so they could make it a real kiss.

"We should talk about this more later... whether we want it to or not, the expectations other people will have of me because of it is going to change things," Alistair said, pressing his forehead against Jowan's. "Believe me when I tell you, _nothing_ anyone can do or say will ever make me willing to give you up. Not as long as we still love each other."

"All right," Jowan agreed, then smiled drowsily. "You're a little heavy."

Alistair laughed, and turned over on his back, hauling Jowan up on top of him. "Better?" he asked.

"Yes," Jowan said, grinning, before wiggling around a little to get more comfortable. They both went to sleep, their arms around each other, the steady beat of Alistair's heart sounding a comforting rhythm under Jowan's side-turned head.

* * *

><p>Supper that evening wasn't quite as pleasant as lunch had been. Arl Eamon led a more formal table, his wife's chair left empty in mourning, and he only had Teagan, Alistair, Arren and Morrigan seated with him, the remainder of the party relegated to a lower table. Alistair rather strongly suspected that Morrigan was only there thanks to Bann Teagan's intervention on her behalf; for that matter, he suspected the Arl would have been just as happy to leave Arren at the lower table as well, had it not been for the necessity of working with the Warden. Like many of his fellows, the Arl saw elves as something that was very like a real person, with many of the same needs and wants and emotions, but certainly not deserving of the same courtesies as one. And overall he didn't particularly care for them; he kept a few elven servants employed for his Denerim mansion, since it was the fashionable thing and expected, but here in Redcliffe almost everyone save a few of the lowest servants was human.<p>

Thankfully Isolde's empty seat and Bann Teagan were between the Arl and Arren, providing a useful buffer space between the Arl, the elf, and his witch. Of course it did mean Alistair, seated directly beside the Arl, was having to keep up a conversation with him. He'd much rather have been down at the lower table with everyone else, smiling and laughing, than trying to keep his face pleasant while listening to the Arl pontificate about his responsibility as a Theirin to oust Teryn Loghain and restore the throne to its proper line. And then marry well and churn out plenty of bouncy baby heirs as well, no doubt, though at least the Arl was sparing him that part of the conversation so far.

At least Briar was nearby, curled up under the table, his head poking out to rest on the bench beside Alistair's thigh, where Alistair could feed him tidbits at intervals. The pressure of the dog's body against his leg was warmly reassuring, and made it easier for him to remember the things that were _really_ important to him in his life. Being a Theirin, and theoretical heir to all of Ferelden, didn't even make the list.

The Arl had made it abundantly clear to him when he was growing up that he was an unwanted extra, with no place in the succession; Alistair didn't see how the death of his brother Cailan changed that. Either it was still true, or it had never been true. And of the two, he knew which he stubbornly preferred to believe. Anyway, it made no difference; he was a Grey Warden now. From the moment Duncan had handed him the tainted cup – even before that moment, from the moment Duncan had conscripted him, really – his unwanted link to the royal family had ceased to have any legal existence. If he ever even _had_ had one – King Maric had certainly never recognized him in any way as his son. Really, the only proof he had of his supposed parentage was the Arl's word on it, and his uncanny resemblance to Maric and Cailan.

No. He was just himself, the bastard Alistair, a Grey Warden, Arren's tainted blood-brother and trusted companion, and Jowan's lover. And that was all he wanted to be, and so much more than he'd ever hoped to have. _Nothing_ the Arl could possibly say could change that.

He was relieved when the meal finally ended. He was still hungry – Arl Eamon had either never heard about Grey Warden appetite or forgotten about it, and his and Arren's servings had been ample for a normal man but inadequate for a warden – but he knew the way to the kitchens and was sure he could find some bread and cheese for a later snack if necessary. The Arl made an effort to speak to Arren politely before finally withdrawing to his own rooms. Arren gathered them all up by eye and led the way back upstairs toward their own rooms.

"Well, that's over with," Arren said, sounding relieved. "And we'll be out of here early tomorrow, as soon as the village blacksmith finishes fixing a few things and sends them up for us. He promised he'd work through the night if necessary, but I told him we'd be just as glad of a sleep-in and would prefer a thorough job to a rushed one. Oh, and Alistair, expect a food tray to arrive upstairs for you shortly; Bann Teagan noticed that you and I were on short rations for the meal and said he'd see to it," he added with a smile.

Alistair grinned. "Bless him. Have I ever mentioned he's my absolute favourite almost-an-Uncle in the entirety of Thedas?"

Arren laughed, and smiled. "He's a good man," he said agreeably. "All right, see you all tomorrow. I'll have to be up early to oversee the last of our provisioning, but the rest of you can sleep in a little. Do try not to get yourselves in any trouble tonight, please; I'd just as soon that we avoid aggravating our hosts. Good night, all," he said, and vanished into his rooms, Morrigan right behind him.

"Heh. Three guesses as to how he and the witch plan to spend their evening, and the first two don't count," Oghren chortled earthily. "Me, I plan to find a tankard, and a servant willing to keep it topped up. I can sleep once I'm dead. Or at least dead-drunk," he said, and wandered off back in the direction of the dining hall.

Sten snorted. "I will see to it that the dwarf doesn't do anything to upset our hosts," he said grimly, and followed after Oghren.

Wynne sniffed in distaste and retired to her own room.

"I suspect our tall friend's true interest is in finding more of the delicious pastries we had for dessert," Zevran said.

"You got pastries? We had some sort of steamed pudding," Alistair said. "It was sticky, and _greasy_."

"Ah, typical Fereldan fare then?" Zevran asked with a smirk. "I swear, most of what you people eat we would not feed to _dogs_ in Antiva. No offence," he added, looking down at Mouse and Briar.

Mouse whuffled at him. Zevran grinned. "A walk? Certainly. The battlements should be pleasant at this time of evening. Lead the way," he said, and gave a ghost of a bow to Alistair and Briar before turning and wandering off in Mouse's wake.

Alistair went into his own room, and sighed in relief. "Maker, that was an unpleasant meal. Don't change back until after the tray comes, please."

Briar made a little snorting sound of agreement, and curled up on the rug beside the bed, resting his head on his forepaws. Thankfully it wasn't long until the substantial platter of food arrived. After the servant had set it down and left, Alistair closed the door and dropped the bar, and gave an even bigger sigh of relief than before. "There," he said happily. "Safe until morning."


	6. Sweet Comfort

Briar sat up, and then Jowan stood up. He swayed a little, but seemed surer on his feet than he'd been after his earlier changes. Alistair picked up the tray and carried it over to the bed, and the two lay down to either side of it, Jowan curled up at the head of the bed and Alistair settled down at the foot, sitting up with his back against the wall and his feet hanging off the side, the food between them.

Jowan nibbled on a few odds and ends while Alistair undertook the serious job of eating enough to satisfy a Grey Warden. After a while he pushed the tray closer to the edge of the bed, and lay down with his feet by the pillow and his head resting on Alistair's thigh. "I think Briar has the right idea," he said, sounding pleased and more than a little smug. "Your leg makes a very nice pillow."

Alistair laughed, reaching over the recumbent mage to pick up another wedge of cheese and a handful of grapes. "Gets lots of extra tidbits that way, too," he pointed out, and held a grape down in front of Jowan's lips. The mage grinned and nipped it out of his fingertips, then wiggled around some more so that he was tilted backwards slightly, looking up at Alistair instead of away from him.

"Careful, or you'll be knocking the tray to the floor in a moment," Alistair pointed out.

"And that would be a waste of good food," Jowan said agreeably. "No more moving around, I'm comfortable now."

"Mmmm," Alistair grunted, and fed him another grape. "I was glad you were there with me at supper today," he said softly. "I think that was the second most uncomfortable meal I've ever had. No, third worst, I'm forgetting the meal with Arl Eamon and the gathered might of the Denerim chantry when he took me there to enrol me in the chantry school. I was feeling so sick to my stomach about knowing I was going to be left there, and probably never see Redcliffe again, that I couldn't eat more than two bites."

"What was the most uncomfortable meal then?" Jowan asked curiously.

"Huh. With Arl Eamon again, actually. I think most of my worst memories revolve around that man, one way or another. Anyway, it was at his Denerim estate, on the joyful occasion of informing me that my father was missing at sea and presumed dead, I was still an unwanted nobody, and oh, by the way, he was signing me over to the chantry as an orphaned youth suitable for templar training. I knew enough about templars by then to know I didn't want to be one. And it certainly didn't help that Arlessa Isolde was also there and glaring daggers at me the entire meal. I was in the middle of a growth spurt, and all tall and gangly and almost as hungry as a warden, and just kept shovelling food in because at least when I was eating I wasn't having to respond to anything the Arl was telling me. I remember being scared that if I tried to say anything I was either going to start screaming or weeping, and not wanting to do either where _they_ could see me. And then on the way back to the chantry afterwards I had to duck down an alley and sick it all back up. I couldn't keep food down for days afterwards."

He'd stopped eating and was shaking slightly by the time he finished his recitation – a combination of old grief, old anger. Jowan had taken one of his hands in both of his and was squeezing it tightly. "I'm sorry I asked," the mage said softly.

Alistair didn't say anything, just hauled the mage into his lap and wrapped his arms tightly around him, lowering his head to rest on Jowan's shoulder. "I hated him so much, for the longest time," he said in a whisper. "I don't, any more. I just... don't really care for him at all. I'd be just as happy to never have to see him again in my life. I mean, he could have been worse, at least I wasn't beaten or anything... I was actually reasonably happy for a lot of my childhood. It was only as I got older that I realized that being raised in the stable with the dogs and horses wasn't normal. That his regular talks on how _useless_ and _unwanted_ I was..." he choked off the words, not wanting to talk about this any further. Arren had heard it all from him, months ago, and helped him deal with the festering poison that the Arl had left buried in his soul. He didn't want to burden Jowan with the knowledge too.

Jowan said nothing, just moved so that he was straddling Alistair's thighs, knees digging into the bed to either side of his hips, and cupped his face between his hands. "You're not useless. Or unwanted. Or unloved," the mage said softly, and leaned forward to brush a gentle kiss over his lips.

Alistair smiled at him, feeling tears coming to his eyes. And didn't mind them; he wasn't scared to cry in front of Jowan, no more than he'd hesitate to do the same in front of Arren. Instead he smiled warmly at Jowan, ignoring his tears, and leaned forward to kiss him back, his arms rising to fold around the other man's body and hold him close.

"We'd better move the tray," Jowan said a few minutes later. "Or we really are going to knock it onto the floor.

Alistair laughed, and rose from the bed to do so. He turned back to find the mage had followed him.

Jowan reached out and poked at the heavy padded linen gambeson he was wearing. "Too many clothes, as usual," the mage said with a mock growl. "Let's get you out of these things, and then we can make proper use of the bed while we have it."

Alistair grinned down at the mage, and happily co-operated with being stripped down. By the time the two of them had him naked, he was already hardening from a combination of anticipation, and the casual touching they'd shared as Jowan helped him undress. He knew he was blushing pink, too, but he'd stopped minding his blushes some time ago, when he realized just how much Jowan liked them. He liked the way Jowan was looking at him, eyes half-lidded an almost predatory, hungry look on his face.

"You're still wearing too many clothes yourself," he pointed out, his own voice husky with longing.

Jowan smiled challengingly at him, and took a half-step back, holding his arms out slightly to either side. "Unwrap me," he purred.

"Like a present? Mmm, yum," Alistair said. "All for me? You shouldn't have."

Jowan flashed him a mercurial grin before returning to his watching stillness. Alistair licked his lips and flexed his hands, not sure where he wanted to start, then gracefully dropped to kneel before Jowan, feet tucked neatly under his buttocks, and lifted Jowan's feet, each in turn, to slip off his boots and socks. He looked up at Jowan's face, smiling at the intense way the mage was watching him, his dark hair falling around and shadowing his face. He rose upright on his knees, lifting his hands to lace his fingers into that hair and draw Jowan down for a long kiss.

His hands stroked lightly down Jowan's shirt to the waist of his leather leggings, and he carefully undid and loosened the laces there as their kiss continued, dividing his attention between the two tasks. His fingers stilled a couple of times when Jowan did particularly interesting things with his tongue or teeth. They were both panting a little when Alistair settled back down onto his heels. He hooked his thumbs in the waist of Jowan's leggings and skinned them and his smallclothes down to the floor. Jowan lifted each foot in turn, stepping out of the pool of fabric, and Alistair tossed them aside to join his own discarded clothes. He gave Jowan a slow, appreciative look from head to foot. He was dressed in nothing now but a loose linen shirt, reaching partway down his thighs, the front tented outwards from his own growing erection. The sight made Alistair own balls tighten, his cock stand even more firmly to attention.

He reached out and grasped the edge of the shirt, raising it up slowly to reveal Jowan's groin, his taut belly. He leaned forward, nuzzling against the mage's stomach, tongue flicking out to dip into his navel, then trailed a line of kisses down the dark downwards path of fine hairs toward the fuller bush of them at his groin. He felt Jowan shiver as he nosed aside his rising erection, his kisses working most of the way down to its base before his tongue began firmly licking its way back up to Jowan's navel. He drew back his head again, then lowered it and licked upwards a second time, this time along the underside of Jowan's cock, slowly, feeling the thick vein there pulsing against his tongue. Jowan's hands were on his shoulders now, holding tightly onto him for balance, his breathing short and excited. He hooked his thumbs under the fabric bunched in his hands, then spread out and closed his hands around Jowan's sides, steading them both further. He leaned forward again, delicately lipping at Jowan's glistening tip, slowly drawing it into his mouth. Jowan groaned as he enveloped the end, his tongue swirling around the edge, then probing against the sensitive underside, the slit in its end, moist and tasting of salt.

"How... how do you want me?" Jowan gasped out as Alistair continued on, drawing more of him into his mouth, alternating gentle sucking with firm pressure from his questing tongue.

Alistair considered the question for a while, then finally drew back his head, letting Jowan slip free again. "On the bed, riding me," he said, his own voice a low growl. "So I can watch you."

Jowan nodded, and stepped back. Alistair rose, claiming his mouth for another lengthy kiss before drawing Jowan's shirt up and off over head.

"Get on the bed," Jowan told him, sounding more than a little breathless. He was flushed pink, eyes darkly blown, and Alistair silently did as he'd been told, lying down on his back, watching as the mage quickly dug in his backpack, coming up with the tightly sealed container of oil. He carried it over to the bed, then paused. "Prepare ourselves, or...?"

"Each other," Alistair growled.

Jowan nodded and joined him on the bed, straddling his waist, facing toward the end of the bed. Alistair held out his hand between the arch of Jowan's legs, felt the almost weightless cool touch in his palm as Jowan poured out a little oil into his hand. He waited while Jowan put aside the container, then carefully spread the oil over Alistair's palm and fingers, greasing his own hands in the process.

"All right," Jowan said after a moment, lifting his hands away. Alistair grunted in acknowledgement, and pulled his hand back, reaching up to press his greased hand to the crevice between Jowan's buttocks, sliding his hand downwards, fingers pressing firmly inward. Even as his fingertips found the rounded pucker hidden there, he felt Jowan's warm, oil-slick hands closing around his own length, and hissed in pleasure.

Forcing himself to prepare Jowan slowly and carefully was difficult, with Jowan's hands doing such thoroughly _distracting_ things to his own cock and balls. "If you don't take things a little slower we're going to have to wait a few minutes for Grey Warden stamina to take effect," he gasped out after a moment.

"Oh, _really?_" Jowan purred, then slid back closer to Alistair and curled down, closing his mouth firmly around Alistair's tip, hands tightening rhythmically on his shaft.. Unprepared for it as he was, Alistair hissed and bucked up slightly.

"Jowan!" he yelped, and then Jowan_ laughed_ around the cock in his mouth, and the sensation of that and the odd quivering tightening around his fingers, still buried deep inside Jowan... he came, helplessly.

"Bastard," he muttered, as the aftershocks faded and he was capable of coherent speech again. Jowan's hands were already resuming their former stroking motions, urging his cock toward a second erection. Jowan laughed again, and Alistair found himself smiling, and wishing Jowan was facing the right way round that he could kiss him. Then grinned, and raised his head and shoulders enough to ghost a kiss over the curve of the rounded cheek near his carefully working fingers. Which earned him another laugh, and then Jowan was releasing him and lifting off his fingers, and scrambling around to face the right way around, a happy grin on his face.

The grin turned to a look of concentration as he guided Alistair's end to himself, and slowly lowered himself down, his still-oily hands braced against Alistair's broad chest. Alistair felt his breathing going short as Jowan slowly lowered himself down, his hot interior enveloping Alistair's length, bit by bit.

Finally the mage was settled all the way back. They stayed still for a long moment, while Jowan's body relaxed around the by-now-familiar intrusion, then the mage smiled and slid his hands to where his oiled fingers could toy with Alistair's nipples, making them pebble and then rise up in tight aching nubs. Alistair let his own hands rise to lightly grasp Jowan's hips, thumbs stroking just slightly against the skin of his lower stomach. Jowan made a pleased noise, then finally began to move, slowly rising up on his knees then sinking down again. The room was quiet except for their gasps and groans of pleasure, the occasional slick sound of moist flesh against flesh. Having just come so strongly moments before, it was a pleasantly long time before Alistair felt his second climax coming. As it neared he finally released his hold on Jowan's hips, and reach to close his oiled hand around Jowan's erection instead, his thumb rubbing firmly against its leaking tip.

Jowan made an inarticulate sound and bent forward, motion changing as he started thrusting into the circle of Alistair's hand, his hands sliding up to grasp tightly at Alistair's shoulders. The extra snap to his hips as he jerked forward repeatedly was finishing Alistair off quickly; his free arm rose up to snake around Jowan's shoulder, pulling him close, and his teeth closed firmly on the mage's shoulder, muffling his shout of pleasure as he went over the edge. The tightening of his fist as he came took Jowan over with him, his seed spurting hot and wet across Alistair's stomach.

They lay locked together intimately for a few minutes, catching their breath, then they carefully disentangled from each other and cleaned up as best as they could before curling up together to sleep.


	7. Unexpected Friends

"All right, anyone _else _still unhappy with how much they're carrying in their pack?" Arren asked, sounding more than slightly annoyed. He'd meant for them to be on the road an hour ago, then Oghen had almost fallen over backwards from the weight of his pack. Which, it turned out, he'd packed every remaining bit of space in with bottles of brew purchased at the Inn down in the village, and which he adamantly refused to leave behind. Which had meant that they'd needed to redistribute some of the actual food and potions and other supplies he was _supposed_ to be carrying into other people's packs. More than a few sharp comments had ended up directed in the dwarf's direction as a result, but he was drunk enough to be entirely oblivious to them.

Alistair wondered how much longer it was going to be before they finally got out of here. He glanced down at Briar, curled up nearby in a pool of shadow under an empty waggon. He seemed relaxed and happy, so Alistair supposed his change must still be holding easily. As long as it held until they were safely away from here... that was the important thing.

Arren was apparently thinking similar thoughts, his eyes also resting on Briar for a moment before he walked over to where Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan were talking quietly to each other at the foot of the steps up to the keep, waiting to bid Arren and part farewell. He let the pair know that he and his party were finally ready to depart. The Arl nodded, and took the opportunity to make a pretty little speech – loudly enough declaimed for everyone in the courtyard to hear clearly – about what an historic moment this was, and how he wished the Wardens well in their quest, had the utmost faith in them, would anxiously await their return, and again made mention of Alistair's right to the throne of Ferelden and his determination to see 'Tyrant Loghain' overthrown and the Theirin line restored.

Arren gave him very brief thanks, and returned to the group, rolling his eyes briefly at Alistair once his back was safely turned to the pair. The Arl turned and retreated into his castle, while Bann Teagan walked over to say his own more personal farewells to Arren and Alistair.

"It's been a pleasure seeing you again, Bann Teagan," Arren assured him. "Will we see more of you when we return?"

"I hope so. I do need to travel briefly back to my own lands of Rainesfere – I've left them sadly neglected while caring for my brother and his people. I trust that my own people will have kept things running smoothly in my absence, however, and hope to return to Redcliffe in time to journey to Denerim for the Landsmeet with Eamon. I hope to see you all there. Perhaps we'll even find time to just sit and talk for a while," he added, almost wistfully.

"I'd like that," Alistair warmly assured him. "Assuming we can avoid darkspawn incursions, walking undead, and demonic possession long enough to do so."

That won a brief smile from Teagan. He turned away, then paused, before moving over to where Zevran stood waiting patiently for the group to get underway. "I hope to see you in Denerim as well, Zevran. Perhaps we can have that second drink," he said, smiling widely.

Zevran smiled pleasantly back at him. "I would enjoy that very much, Teagan. Thank you again for the gift. You are most courteous," he said, and gave a small bow toward the other man.

"It was my pleasure," Teagan said, returned the bow, and headed back toward the castle as well.

Zevran turned and smiled at Arren and Alistair, who were both staring at him in shock. "What?" he asked, with patently false innocence.

"Zevran! What happened between you and Bann Teagan last night!" Alistair hissed. "Don't tell me you debauched my _uncle_...!"

"Oh, no, there was no debauchery involved, I promise you," Zevran said. "Just a lot of brandy. And there may have been some kissing. Teagan is a very sweet man, I assure you. And so delightfully sexy for an older man, not to mention still quite charmingly virile. But I should not speak of a gentleman behind his back. Come, were we not supposed to be on the road some time ago?" he asked, one eyebrow arching high in enquiry, still endeavouring to look innocent.

"Zevran..." Arren said warningly.

"I assure you, my warden, nothing happened of which you would disapprove. I swear it on my honour as an Antivan Crow. No, wait, that doesn't work, I am no longer a true Crow, and they are largely without honour anyway. How about on my word as your sworn man? Or I could pinky-swear it if you desire."

"Remind me again why I spared his life?" Arren asked Alistair.

"Don't look at _me_, I've never understood it," Alistair told him.

"Because it would be a terrible waste to kill an elf as beautiful and sexy as I," Zevran assured them.

"That must be it," Arren said, and sighed theatrically, then resumed his normal expression. "All right, let's get moving, we're wasting daylight.

They turned and started across the courtyard, Briar falling in at Alistair's heels. And came to an abrupt stop halfway to the gatehouse, seeing that the bridge was blocked by a party approaching the castle. Four people, two in armour – templars – and two in mage robes, one quite tall and one rather petite.

Alistair heard a faint whine and glanced down to see Briar staring fixedly at the group, so tense he was practically vibrating, leaning urgently forward, his ears pricked up attentively. A second whine escaped his throat. "What is it, boy?' Alistair asked softly.

Then the group moved into the shadowed tunnel through the gatehouse, and Alistair realized he recognized the two robed forms, one tall and lean, one much shorter and female. Jowan's two friends, from the tower – Owen Amell, and Mara Surana. What were _they_ doing here!

Just then Owen caught sight of them. A warm smile crossed his face, and he raised his hand in a wave. "Arren! Alistair! Hello, Wynne! I see we got here just in time," he said, a wide grin crossing his face as he and Mara hurried toward the group, Mara almost running to keep up with the much taller mage's long strides, the two templars trailing along in their wake.

"In time?" Arren asked warily. "In time for what?"

"To join you, of course," Mara said. "Irving and Greagoir decided to send us to join your party. Officially we're to help you liaison with the Circle, unofficially the two of them decided you could likely use some more firepower. Plus they wanted the two of us out from underfoot while the Grand Cleric of Denerim's fact-finding mission is at the tower; Irving thinks the chantry will be less than happy to learn about our role in resisting the blood mage incursion, even if we _did_ save so many lives."

"Probably _because_ we saved so many lives; the chantry is less than fond of the idea of mages being heroes," Owen added dryly.

"And, err... these gentlemen are...?" Alistair asked, nodding to the two templars escorting them.

"Oh, sorry. Ser Gervais – he was one of the templars who were with us on our rather overly exciting adventure – and I'm sure you remember Ser Carroll, of course?"

"Of course. Hello, Carroll. Off of dock duty then?" Alistair asked politely.

Carroll nodded jerkily, taking off his helmet and sticking it under his arm as Ser Gervais did the same. "Err, yes. For a while – ever since they gave Kester back his ferry."

Mara smiled cheerfully at the two templars, then turned back to Arren and Alistair. "Ser Gervais is here to escort Connor Guerrin back to the tower. And Carroll is along so that if we'd missed you here, we'd have a templar to escort us until we found you. It looks like we won't be needing you after all, Carroll."

"Oh, err, right," the young templar said, then looked desperately at Ser Gervais.

"He can help me with my mission then," the older templar said smoothly, obviously noticing that the younger man was floundering. "Speaking of missions, the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter both asked me to find out about how the mage Jowan is faring in your company. I, err... don't see him?" he asked delicately.

"Yes, where _is_ Jowan?" Owen asked, a distinctly frosty note entering his voice. "I hope you haven't misplaced our friend?"

* * *

><p><strong>Zevran's evening with Bann Teagan is covered in the one-shot called "Brandy Kisses", which can be found in my profile here. Owen and Mara are characters from the end of "So Sharp A Thorn".<strong>


	8. Departure

Briar had been shifting excitedly back and forth ever since the four had approached, acting as if he was barely restraining himself from lunging at the two mages. During their talk he'd been pressed hard against Alistair's leg, gazing adoringly up at Mara and Owen, tail a blur it was wagging so hard. Owen's question seemed to push him past some limit; he yelped, bounced partially upright, then there was a shimmer of magic, and suddenly instead of a mabari at Alistair's side there was a mage, falling over backwards on his ass.

With a muttered curse Arren stepped closer, the rest of the party quickly moving in what might almost have been a practised move, closing in to screen sight of the mage from everyone else in the courtyard.

"Damn," Jowan gasped. "Sorry, couldn't concentrate enough to hold it any more," he explained, then grinned unrepentantly up at his friends. "Hello Owen, Mara."

Mara had a wide, delighted grin on her elven face. Owen was looking mildly surprised, one eyebrow rising to disappear under his shaggy bangs. Ser Gervais had an inscrutable expression on his face, while Carroll looked frozen in terror.

"Interesting," Owen said, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Mara laughed delightedly and clapped her hands, then crouched down to give Jowan a fierce hug. "I want to learn that," she told him firmly, then bounced back to her feet. "Though I'd assume there's a _reason_ behind why Jowan was disguised as a dog?" she asked, looking questioningly at Arren and Alistair.

"Yes," Alistair agreed, looking to the two mages, then at Ser Gervais. "As you may know, Jowan was involved in the poisoning of the Arl of Redcliffe prior to being given over into Arren's custody. The Arl is now recovered – as of yesterday – and he is understandably not very well inclined to the mage who both poisoned him and slew his wife in a blood mage ritual, even if the ritual was to save the life of his son and done at her insistence. We felt it was... politic... for Jowan's presence here to be kept from him."

"He may well be tempted to exercise summary justice against Jowan if he knew he was present here," Arren added, speaking directly to Ser Gervais. "I have assured him, through his brother Bann Teagan, that Jowan has been harrowed and restored to the Circle, and that he falls within the jurisdiction of Knight-Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving, not himself."

Ser Gervais nodded his head briefly. "That is the correct legal interpretation, yes," he agreed. "If he was a maleficarum or an apostate mage the local chantry or any passing templar would also have the right to act on any cases involving him, but as Jowan is not an apostate – you do still have your copy of your travel papers, yes? Good – then he can only be judged by the Circle authorities, or by Her Grace of Denerim or her duly appointed representative."

Arren grinned at the templar. "I'm glad I remembered the tradition correctly, then... things are different among the Dalish. I've had to spend a lot of time studying shemlen laws to be sure of what the legal rights and responsibilities of myself and my companions are."

Gervais tipped his head slightly toward him in acknowledgement, then frowned down at where Jowan was still huddled in the dust, trying to keep hidden. "I take it that it would be best if Jowan resumed his disguise and you moved on then?"

"Yes," Alistair assured him. "Jowan, can you manage a change again so soon?"

"I'll need a potion first, and I won't be able to hold it for very long," Jowan said tiredly. "All the delays this morning..."

Wynne handed him a lyrium potion. He knocked it back, grimacing at the taste, then closed his eyes and concentrated. There was a noticeable pause before his form shimmered, and resolved into Briar again.

"Well, I had better be about my business and collect young Connor. Carroll, you are to accompany the mages out of Redcliffe, and wait for me at the milestone where we stopped for a rest earlier. _Quietly_. Do you understand your orders?"

"Yes, ser," Carroll squeaked. He was still looking more than a little wide-eyed over witnessing the transformations, and his hands were shaking noticeably as he lifted his helmet and put it back on. Arren smiled and nodded his appreciation to Gervais; clearly the senior templar doubted Carroll's ability to keep his mouth shut about what he'd just witnessed, and felt that getting him away from Redcliffe Castle was the wise course. Based on his own previous encounter with the young templar, Arren could only agree.

"Right. Let's get moving. A pleasure meeting you, Ser Gervais," he said, nodding his head to the templar.

"And you, ser," Gervais politely responded, giving the elven warrior a cross-armed bow. "Owen, Mara, I'll be looking forward to hearing of your adventures after you return to the Tower," he said, smiling at the two mages, then turned and headed toward the entrance to the keep.

Arren quickly got his group moving again, signalling for Owen and Mara to join him at the front so he could quiz them about their orders from the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter. Carroll trailed along a few steps behind them, Wynne falling in at his side to keep an eye on him. Alistair found himself bracketed by Briar on one side of him, and Zevran on the other.

"So, these mages are friends of Jowan? You have met them before?" Zevran asked Alistair.

"Yes, when we took Jowan across to the tower for his harrowing, we spent some time talking to them afterwards. The tall one is Owen Amell, and the elf is Mara Surana."

"Mara," Zevran breathed, his eyes watching the young woman. "You must tell me more of her. She is _exquisite_," the assassin exclaimed softly.

Alistair gave Zevran a startled look. _Exquisite_ wasn't a word he'd have applied to the tiny mage. Cute, maybe – even with her hair shaved down to a dark peach-fuzz-like coating there was something endearing about her boundless enthusiasm in combination with her minuteness. She reminded him of a kitten more than anything, all small and cute and full of energy. But... exquisite?

He exchanged a look with Briar. If mabari could roll their eyes, he suspected Briar would have been doing so.

* * *

><p>By the time they reached where Ser Gervais wanted Carroll to wait for him, it was close enough to lunch time that Arren decided they might as well stop there as well. They withdrew to a small clearing far enough back from the road that any passersby would not likely notice their group – not unless they were keeping an eye out for anyone around there, anyway.<p>

Briar changed back to Jowan, and promptly collapsed to the ground, worn out from having to hold mabari form for so long that morning, and not just once, but twice. All four other mages hurried over to check on him, Owen and Mara looking the most anxious, Wynne frowning in concern, and Morrigan looking more amused than anything else.

"He will be fine," Morrigan said firmly. "'Tis to be expected that he would collapse after tiring himself out so. A good rest is all he requires."

Arren had walked over to see how Jowan was as well. He sighed, then nodded. "All right. We'll stay here for at least a couple of hours then. Everyone should get some rest, we'll be pushing on late into the evening to make up for all the lost time today," he added, raising his voice to make sure everyone heard.

Alistair picked up the unconscious mage and carried him over to where he could sit down with his back against a tree, Jowan held across his lap, head pillowed on his chest. Which couldn't have been entirely comfortable for the mage, given that Alistair was in his armour, but he was sleeping so soundly Alistair doubted he'd notice.

Owen and Mara followed him, anxious for their friend. Owen settled down on the ground near Alistair, long legs outstretched, and Mara promptly joined him, perching cross-legged on his lap. Zevran came over to join them as well, bringing bread and cheese, and a skin of wine. He knelt down beside Alistair, where he could see both the new mages easily, and began slicing bread and cheese and doling it out to everyone.

"Thanks, Zev," Alistair said, accepting the first slice of bread and cheese from him.

"It is no problem," Zevran assured him. "You have your hands full looking after our friend, after all," he said, then darted a look at the two new mages. "We have not been introduced," he pointed out, and managed a creditable version of a bow toward them while still slicing bread. "I am Zevran Arainai, late of the Antivan Crows, at your service," he said, giving them a wide smile.

Mara grinned and clapped her hands together. "A Crow! I've read of the assassins of Antiva. I never thought I'd actually get to meet one. I'm Mara Surana, and this is Owen Amell," she added, gesturing to the mage she was perched on.

Zevran smiled warmly at her. "Few wish to meet us, since it is most likely to be in the course of our duty," he pointed out. "I am pleased to meet someone who is an exception."

She smiled. "A good point," she said. "I suspect I'd be less happy to meet you if I or someone I knew was your target."

"So how did you become part of Arren's group?" Owen asked, looking curiously at the elf as he leaned forward to accept some bread and cheese from him, curling around the diminutive mage in his lap with the ease of long practise, him leaning to one side as she leaned to the other. He passed the food to Mara, then accepted a second piece for himself.

"I was hired to kill Alistair and Arren," Zevran said cheerfully. "Sadly I failed. Very tragic. But Arren chose to spare my life, and now I am sworn as his man."

Alistair snorted softly. Jowan muttered and squirmed a little, then fell still again. They all fell silent for a moment and turned to look at him, to see if he was waking.

"That was very interesting magic he was using," Mara remarked quietly after he'd settled back down. "I've read about shape-shifting, but the knowledge of how it is done is lost to the circle, if it was ever known."

"Morrigan taught it to him," Alistair explained. "She's the dark-haired witch sitting with Arren. She learned it from her mother... Flemeth."

"Flemeth!" Owen exclaimed, looking surprised.

"The Witch of the Wilds? Asha'bellanar? She really exists then?" Mara asked, looking mildly excited.

"Yes. She saved our lives after Ostagar, Arren and I. We were attacked by darkspawn at the top of the Tower of Ishal. My last memory is of seeing Arren go down, with a lot of arrows in him, and then a blow to the back of my own neck. Flemeth somehow rescued us, and she and Morrigan nursed us back to health. Morrigan has been travelling with us ever since."

Alistair ate the last bite of his bread and cheese, and smiled gratefully at Zevran as the elf promptly handed him a second piece.

"So the two of you are friends of Jowan?" Zevran asked, settling back on his haunches and delicately nibbling at a slice of cheese.

"Yes," Owen said.

"Ever since he first came to the tower," Mara confirmed. "He and I were close in age, and shared much the same magics." She turned and looked at the sleeping mage, and smiled fondly at him. "I'm glad he's finally found some happiness in his life," she said softly.

"Me too," Owen agreed. Mara looked up at him with a warm smile, then captured his arm and hugged it to her. He smiled down at her with equal warmth.

Alistair glanced at Zevran. The assassin had his inscrutable face on as he watched the two mages together. Fighting off an amused smile, Alistair hurriedly shoved the remaining bit of his bread and cheese into his mouth, then held out his hand for another.


	9. Gossip

Zevran watched the two mages as they talked quietly with Alistair. The woman, Mara, was startlingly beautiful, with fine delicate features lent an exotic beauty by the curving golden lines of the vallaslin that marked her face. Even her short-cropped hair only enhanced her beauty, rather than detracted from it, and he longed to run his palm over her scalp and feel the velvety softness of it for himself. He longed to do much more than that, truth be told. He longed to worship her, to shower her with kisses, to caress her pale skin, to share with her the pleasures of love-making.

There was, however, the slight problem of the _other_ mage, the one she was so casually using as a seat, and displaying such obvious affection toward. Owen was the tallest human Zevran could ever recall seeing in his life; a full head taller than Alistair, almost as tall as Sten, though not anywhere near as broad in the shoulders. Long and lanky, with a shaggy mane of brownish hair obscuring his face and hanging down his back, his cheeks and chin covered with a rough stubble of darker brown hair, in marked contrast to the immaculately groomed elf perched in his lap.

Mara was small even for an elf - the top of her head would only just reach Zevran's shoulder if they stood side-by-side, a most charming size. Her gigantic friend, on the other hand, would tower over him; his own head would only come to mid-chest on the human. An intimidating thought, especially if the man noticed and took offence at his interest in Mara. Oh, he had little doubt he could beat the man in a fight, if necessary, apart from the small detail of him being a mage of unknown ability. That could prove tricky. Besides, he doubted Mara would be pleased with him if he injured or killed her friend, and he wanted her pleased with him. Very, _very_ pleased with him, by choice. _Ecstatically_ pleased with him would be best of all.

He always enjoyed a challenge; seducing her was going to be such fun.

* * *

><p>Jowan felt a little embarrassed when he woke up after a lengthy nap, but that quickly faded in the face of his joy at seeing Owen and Mara standing nearby, talking quietly with Arren. Alistair helped him to his feet and handed him some bread and cheese he'd put aside for him, and the two went over to join the others.<p>

Arren smiled to see him up on his feet again, and quickly called for everyone to get ready to move on again. Before he'd even finished eating his belated lunch they started off again, leaving Carroll standing nervously by the milestone to wait for Ser Gervais. Jowan was pleased to find himself walking between Owen and Mara, with Alistair and Zevran a short distance behind. Mara peppered him with questions about his adventures since last seeing them at the tower, and about his new ability to change shape. She was quite disappointed by his refusal to attempt teaching her the skill himself.

"Look, I've only just barely learned how to do it myself, I wouldn't feel it was safe to try to teach someone else. And I don't feel like I really have the right to teach it to others, anyway, certainly not without Morrigan's approval first. If anyone teaches you how to do this, it should be her; it's magic passed down in _her_ family."

"Oh, fine, I'll talk with her about it when I have a chance, then," Mara reluctantly agreed. "Have you learned anything else interesting while you've been away from the tower?"

Jowan could think of a few things, but none that he'd be willing to describe to Mara of all people. Owen, maybe, if he was sufficiently drunk first.

"You're smirking," Owen pointed out, then glanced past him at Mara and smiled. "I bet he learned something naughty."

Mara sniffed and made a face, dismissing the subject. "I'll assume that means no, then," she said.

Owen glanced over his shoulder at the pair trailing along behind them, then raised an eyebrow at Jowan, a smile turning up his lips. "So... you and a templar, hmm?"

Jowan blushed, then grinned, ducking his head. "He's not exactly a templar. He was trained as one, but he never actually wanted to be one, and then he was conscripted into the Grey Wardens before his final investiture. He's got some interesting ideas about what the relationship between templars and mages is supposed to be," he added thoughtfully, then flushed as Owen smirked and Mara giggled. "I don't mean _that_ way!"

"Then what way _do_ you mean?" Mara asked, one eyebrow rising in an enquiring arch.

"He thinks that templars aren't meant to be the guards of mages; they're supposed to be our guardians, more there to keep _us _safe than to keep others safe from us, though that too is part of being a guardian. He's got some good reasoning to support the idea, too. He thinks mages are less likely to succumb to demons and become abominations or... or become blood mages... if they're healthy and happy and feel secure."

Owen nodded thoughtfully. "I'd tend to agree with that reasoning. It was mainly the more desperate or unbalanced mages who turned during Uldred's little revolution, after all. The ones who felt they had nothing to lose."

Mara nodded, her expression unusually serious. "Yes. And we've all heard stories about how bad the situation is in places like Kirkwall, where its known the mages are being far more severely handled than here in Ferelden. I don't buy for a minute the explanation that the veil being 'thinner' there explains why they have so many more problems with demons and abominations there than we do here. Except that having so many mages living in such high stress there is likely _contributing_ to why the veil is so thin."

Owen nodded in agreement, looking very sober. "I'm glad we have someone like Greagoir leading here," he agreed. "At least he's a reasonable man."

Their conversation turned to lighter subjects after that, and Jowan spent a very pleasant day catching up on gossip with his two old friends, and looking forward to seeing them getting them to know his new ones.


	10. Dalish Camp

"I'm starting to think I should get clothes like yours," Owen remarked to Jowan one morning a few days later, after emerging from the tent he shared with Mara. "That's much more sensible for travelling in than these robes are."

Jowan nodded. "I certainly find them so," he agreed, and eyed his lanky friend. "I think we'd have a hard time finding something to fit you though."

Owen made a face. "True," he agreed. "Maybe if we reach a village or town where we plan to stay for at least a couple of days I can get something made up."

"What are we talking about?" Mara asked, crawling out of the tent behind him.

"Clothing. Owen was saying he'd like to dress like what I'm wearing." Jowan explained. "More sensible for travel."

Mara cocked her head to one side and looked Jowan over, then looked up at Owen, smiling warmly. "You'd look good dressed like that," she agreed. "I think I'll stick with my robes though. I like them."

"And you look very attractive in them, my dear," Zevran said gallantly, walking over to join the group. He smiled at her, then at Jowan and Owen as well. "Breakfast will be ready shortly. A cold one, I am afraid, Arren wishes to be back on the road as soon as possible. I believe he is anxious to see his Dalish kinsfolk once again."

They all headed over to the firepit, filled with ash and just a few smouldering coals left from the fire the night before. Morrigan and Arren were squatted down nearby, sorting out things for breakfast for everyone – ten neat little piles of travel biscuit, jerky, and dried fruit spread out on a clean cloth. Wynne, Sten, Oghren and Alistair joined them shortly afterwards, and everyone claimed a pile of food and then stood or sat somewhere nearby to eat.

"Do you think we'll find the Dalish today?" Alistair asked.

Arren nodded. "I hope so. We're near a lake I know the Dalish often camp at when in this part of the forest, and that halla dung we saw yesterday can't have been more than a few days old; with luck they're still camped there, and if not, hopefully they aren't too far ahead. We can cover more ground in a day than the aravels can – it takes a while to get them moving each morning, and to stop again at night. Unless they have some reason to be pushing hard, we'll catch up with them soon."

Alistair nodded, and gnawed on a strip of jerky.

"Will they have any problem with encountering such a large party of us, especially since so many of us are humans?" Jowan asked nervously.

Arren frowned, then shrugged. "I don't know. Some clans are more hostile to shemlen than others. My own preferred to keep our distance from the shem, and if we found any encroaching on our territory we'd drive them away. How we're received will depend in large part on what sort of experiences this clan has recently had with humans. Hopefully the presence of myself, Mara and Zevran will give them enough pause that they'll be willing to talk first, rather than just attempting to drive us away. For that reason, I'd like the three of us to be out in front of the group. The remaining mages in the middle, and Alistair and Sten bringing up the back – you're both a little more intimidating than I'd like them to have as their first impression of us," he added with a smile.

"What about me, boss?" Oghren asked, then belched loudly.

"Hmmm. Behind me, I guess; we Dalish see durgen'len rarely enough that I would hope they'd be more curious about you than frightened by you."

"So I should try to look cute and harmless then? Not sure I can do _cute_."

"I'll settle for mostly harmless. Along that line of thought, sober would also be good," Arren said, looking pointedly at the wineskin Oghren had just unhooked from his belt.

Oghren sighed. "Got it," he agreed, and took only a single small mouthful of wine before stoppering and putting away the wineskin again.

* * *

><p>In mid-afternoon they found their path abruptly blocked by several elves, armed with bows. For Dalish it was a reasonably polite greeting for strangers; while two of the three elves blocking their path were holding bows, they were pointing them down at the ground with arrows gripped on slack strings, not pointing at Arren and his group or drawn, though he knew they could be in a blink of an eye, if it became necessary. Besides, he was sure there were considerably more elves hidden around them, and <em>they<em> were not necessarily being so polite with their bows.

He stepped forward and held up one hand in greeting. The woman leading the elves stepped forward and did the same.

"Andaran atish'an, my friend. You have come a long way. I give you the welcome of our clan," she said, giving his companions a suspicious look. "These are curious companions you have. Might I ask the purpose of your visit?"

Arren smiled warmly at her. "I have come on behalf of the Grey Wardens, sister. I must speak with your keeper immediately."

"The Grey Wardens? You... have joined their ranks? How unusual! Excuse my surprise... I will take you to the keeper right away," she said, and gave a brief hand-signal before turned and leading the way along the trail. "Ask your companions to remain close. We are unused to outsiders," she warned.

Their interview with the keeper proved more aggravating than informative; once again, they found themselves in the situation of being asked to solve someone else's problem before that person was able or willing to honour the treaty they carried.

Arren saw his party camped in a lakeside site not far from the elven encampment, then returned there with Morrigan to try and learn more about the extent and nature of the elven problem with werewolves. He told them he didn't expect to continue on into the forest until the next day at the earliest.

"Well, so we have free time and a convenient lake at hand," Zevran pointed out. "I suggest we have a bathing party. I don't think I've had a proper bath since we left Redcliffe."

"I'll bathe later," Wynne said. "For now I'm tired and would prefer to nap until dinner time."

Owen looked at Mara. "Bathing now or later?" he asked her.

She smiled. "Later, I think. I know you and Jowan wouldn't mind, but I think some of your companions would be self-conscious about bathing with me. I'll accompany Wynne later." she said.

Owen nodded, and started digging through his pack for a clean robe, and some soap.

* * *

><p>"Would Mara really have come bathing with us if she hadn't thought it would upset some of us?" Alistair asked Jowan as the two of them waded out into the lake.<p>

"Mara? Of course. She's never really seen any point in being body conscious," Jowan said, and grinned. "She didn't like being separated from Owen when she was younger – threw the most terrible tantrums any time it happened – so everyone just kind of got used to the idea that if she was going to be bathed, Owen was going to have to be there too. And then they both took me under their wing when I came to the tower, and I just sort of tagged along with them for everything, including bathing. We were pretty inseparable, though they were always far closer to each other than to me."

Alistair glanced over at Owen, who was busy shampooing his hair. "They do seem pretty close," he agreed.

Jowan smiled. "They met each other before they ever even reached the tower; apparently he saved her life in the incident that revealed both of them as mages... she was just a little kid at the time. So she latched onto him as the one person she knew and trusted, on the way to the tower. He carried her around _everywhere_ until she started feeling secure enough to walk on her own, and even then she always preferred to be close to him," Jowan said, then grinned. "He was the world's tallest self-propelled security blanket. She grew out of it eventually, I think it's more habit than any actual need that makes them so touchy with each other still."

"Habit? You mean they aren't, errr..."

"A couple? Maker, no. Mara is definitely _not_ Owen's type," Jowan said. He tried to control his expression, but could feel his lips curving into a smile anyway.

"You're smirking," Alistair said, giving him a suspicious look. "All right, I'll bite... what_ is_ his type?"

"Oh, well, let's just say I'm glad I know Owen isn't the type to get involved with someone who is already in a relationship, or I'd have to be worried about him trying to get you to show him what you keep under your faulds. He has a bit of a thing for strong men in armour; you can imagine how much he enjoyed being stuck in a tower full of templars."

Alistair blushed bright red, and Jowan grinned even wider.


	11. In The Tent

Alistair and Jowan had set up their tent as far as they could from the others and still be within a safe distance of them. They both suspected that once their group moved on further into the forest in pursuit of the werewolves Zathrian wanted them to quell, they would be back to having few if any chances for privacy again. It didn't take any conversation for them to begin peeling off each other's clothing as soon as they returned to their tent that evening, exchanging kisses in between stripping each other down.

They knelt in the middle of their bedroll, Alistair having to keep his head bent to clear the low roof overhead, but that just meant he was in the perfect position for the two of them to kiss. Jowan ran his hands up into Alistair's hair, carding his fingers absently through the short strands while Alistair kissed him deeply, tongue slowly and thoroughly exploring his mouth. Alistair made a pleased noise at the contact, and slid his own hands up and down Jowan's back, pulling him closer. Then one of his hands slipped up to twine among the long hair at the back of Jowan's head, while the other drifted downwards and cupped one cheek of Jowan's buttocks, giving a light squeeze that made Jowan growl appreciatively and press closer to Alistair.

Alistair drew his head back a little, ending the kiss, and smiled to see the flushed, _wanting _expression on Jowan's face. He tugged lightly on Jowan's hair to tip his head back further, then lowered his head again, kissing along the line of Jowan's jaw, then lower, down his neck. He kissed and nuzzled at the base of Jowan's neck for a minute, then began licking at his throat, first short delicate laps at the dips above his arching collarbones, then long, slow licks up the front of his throat, from collarbones right up to chins. Jowan moaned and arched his head further back, giving him easier access. Alistair made a pleased sound, and nibbled on the other man's chin for a moment, drawing a startled giggle from him.

He grinned, then nuzzled into his hair until he found an earlobe. He drew it slowly into his mouth, sucking and nibbling gently on it, then licked his way around the outer rim of the ear, and felt Jowan shudder in his arms. He drew back slightly again, kissing his way across the upturned arch of Jowan's throat, then nosed into the hair on the other side and gave that ear the same treatment. Jowan's hands clutched almost painfully tight into his own hair, then Jowan was yanking him back to where he could kiss him on the mouth again, hungrily, almost bruisingly hard.

Jowan took a turn, nipping and lipping his way down the column of Alistair's throat. The mage paused for a moment to lick at the dip under his adam's apple, then shifted backwards on his knees so he could begin working his way down Alistair's chest, his tongue laving in slow, moist circles against his skin.

Alistair groaned at the loss of contact between their bodies. He hooked his hands under Jowan's arms and pulled him closer, as he himself lay back, twisting around his legs so that he ended up stretched out on his back, Jowan lying face-down on top of him. Jowan gave a short, breathless laugh. "What do you want?" he asked, raising his head to smile at Alistair.

Alistair swallowed thickly, looking at Jowan's swollen lips and blown eyes. "You," he said, voice low and hoarse.

Jowan's smile widened, and he laced his fingers into Alistair's hair again, squirming up his body a little so that they could kiss again. "Good answer," he growled against Alistair's mouth before opening his lips and inviting the warrior to plunder his mouth again.

Alistair concentrated on the kiss, on the slick play of tongue against tongue, only vaguely aware of Jowan's hands releasing his hair, of his body shifting around a little as he reached for something. It wasn't until he heard the familiar sound of the cork being removed from their oil bottle that he ended the kiss. Jowan sat up, letting his legs slip to either side to straddle Alistair. He poured a little oil into his cupped palm. "Hands," he growled.

Alistair obediently held his hands in easy reach of Jowan. The mage quickly spread the oil over his own palms and fingers, then began spreading it onto Alistair's as well. He took his time, massaging Alistair's hands as much as spreading oil, which drew a rumbling purr of approval from the man. Jowan grinned. "Like that, do you?"

"Very much," Alistair agreed, smiling fondly at him.

"I'll have to give you a real massage some time," the mage suggested, grinning at him. "For now... let's try this," he said, rose on his knees, and worked backwards until he was straddling Alistair's hips instead of his stomach. Reaching down, he ran his oiled hands lightly along Alistair's erection, taking particular care to cover the underside with a glistening coat of oil. Alistair growled and twitched, his own hands opening and closing in mid-air, not sure if he should reciprocate or do something different. Jowan slicked the underside of his own erection as well, then leaned forward and lowered himself down, pressing their cocks together.

"Put your hands around both of us at once," Jowan instructed Alistair.

He nodded and eased his hands between them, wrapping his hands around both their erections at once, holding them firmly together. "That good?" he asked.

Jowan gave a breathless little laugh. "Better than good, yes," he gasped out. "A little tighter. Shit, shit, yes, just like that!"

Jowan's own hand worked in between the two of them, cupping over their tips. He gently rubbed his palm over them for a moment, both their breathing going short and harsh. "I'm going to move," he panted out after a minute. "Try to... keep us together..."

He slowly drew back a little, then pushed forward again. His cock slipped along the underside of Alistair's, down and up again, guided by the warm, oily enclosure of Alistair's hands, the sensitive veined ridges rubbing together.

"Maker!" Alistair gasped.

Jowan laughed again, a half-strangled sound. "Good?"

"_Exquisite_," Alistair growled.

"See if... you can move too..." Jowan panted out. "In time. If you can."

Alistair nodded, waited for Jowan to finish a stroke, then on the next tried to rock his hips as well. They both cursed at the sensation, as they moved not-quite-in-step, cock rubbing against oiled, slick cock and oiled, calloused palms. After a few strokes they got into an even, slow rhythm with each other, sliding back and forth through Alistair's hands, Jowan palming slow circles on the tips ever time they pressed into his hands.

Jowan was curled over in a tight arch, his forehead pushing hard against Alistair's chest. Alistair could feel the hot gust of his breath against his skin as he panted for breath. Jowan's one free hand crept up his side, brushing across the flat planes of his chest to find and circle a nipple, while the mage jerkily moved his head to one side, found and lipped at the other. Alistair groaned, his back arching with the added sensation, hands tightening even more on their lengths. Jowan gave a low cry, and began to move with more urgency. They lost their shared rhythm, but the added sensation of cock sliding firmly against cock was more than worth it; they came within a breath of each other, thick white seed spurting across their bellies, slicking their hands.

Jowan groped for a cloth he'd put handy to them, and he wiped them more-or-less clean before stretching out on top of Alistair again. "Even better then what it sounded like," he said smugly.

Alistair gave a low laugh. "Another of Zevran's little suggestions?" he asked.

"No. Owen suggested it," Jowan said, sounding even more pleased with himself.

Alistair snorted. "Remind me to thank him some time."

Jowan lifted his head to grin at Alistair. "Just as long as you keep the thanks to words alone. I'm the only mage you get to kiss. Or grope. Or do other intriguing things with."

Alistair laughed. "Of course," he agreed.


	12. Cookies, Clothing, and Cuts

Owen cursed as his robe snagged on other thorn bush. Mara laughed. "Stand still," she scolded, and crouched down to untangle the fold of cloth from the ensnaring thorns.

Owen peered down at what she was doing, then looked at Jowan, who was leaning on his staff and grinning widely. "You can laugh, you're at least wearing pants, not a blighted robe," he pointed out sourly.

"_I_ manage to walk through the woods in robes without getting involved with every passing bush," Mara pointed out.

"You're also half my size, you can walk down the middle of the path without your skirts dragging against the bushes alongside," Owen pointed out.

Mara smiled up at him, then rose to her feet. "You're free again. And a big baby. Though I suppose getting tangled with a thorn bush at the wrong time could be a bad thing."

"You mean like during that fight with the wolves earlier?" Alistair asked, peering past Jowan to see what the holdup was. "Yes, that could have been a bad thing."

Mara frowned thoughtfully. "Well, if you're willing to make some sacrifices, I suppose I might be able to do something about your clothes," she told Owen.

"Anything!" he said fervently, picking his way carefully along the narrow path, holding the skirts of his robe carefully gathered together in front with one hand, the other being occupied with his own staff; he'd tried carrying it on his back, only to find that the ends of it got caught up in tree branches and shrubberies almost as much as his robe did.

"You'll need to sacrifice a couple of your robes for material. And I'll need those cookies I know you have hidden in the bottom of your pack.

"My cookies?" Owen asked, startled, then sighed. "Fine, you drive a hard bargain. If it gets me into pants, you can have all of my cookies."

"Good," Mara said.

When they stopped for lunch later that day, she dug in Owen's pack, then headed over to talk earnestly with Sten for a few minutes. She returned a short while later, looking pleased with herself, and carrying a voluminous shirt and pants. Owen frowned at them. "I'm going to be swimming in those," he pointed out. "Sten is a barn door, I'm a beanpole."

"Oh, hush," Mara said. "The leggings are just on loan until I make you some of your own with the material from your robes. And I'll modify the shirt to fit you. Now lets get you changed," she said.

Owen nodded, and rose to his feet, fingers already unlacing his robe. He skinned it off over his head, and Mara handed him the leggings. He had to hold them up with both hands – Sten's waist was easily twice the size of his – while Mara threaded a piece of cord from his robe through the belt loops and drew it snug enough to keep them up. They hung quite loose and baggy on him. The shirt was even worse, the shoulders ending partway down his upper arms, the sleeves wanting to flop down past his hands. Mara giggled as she rolled the cuffs back until they were short enough not to impede his hands. "You look like a scarecrow," she told him. "And your hair looks like someone stuck a haystack on your head."

Owen made a face and reached up to roughly finger-comb his hair. "At least I won't be having intimate relations with every thorn bush we pass this afternoon," he said. "Thank you."

Mara nodded, and then went to fetch their share of lunch while he put away his robe and did his best to neaten up his appearance.

"She's right, you do look like a scarecrow," Jowan remarked as he walked up with Alistair and Zevran, each of them carrying their share of lunch.

"No making fun of my outfit," Owen said warningly, frowning at the slighter mage.

Jowan grinned. "I wouldn't dream of it. You might hit me. And then I'd have to set your hair on fire again. And then Mara would be mad at both of us."

"Good point," Owen said, grinning, and sat down on the ground near his and Mara's packs. "Anyway, she's promised to do something about the shirt, and to make me pants."

"Oh, well, in that case you'll be even better-dressed than I am soon," Jowan said, and sat down nearby, Alistair moving to sit beside him, while Zevran chose to lounge back against a nearby tree. "Mara's an excellent seamstress," he explained to Alistair and Zevran. "Give her some fabric and thread and she can make just about anything, as neat as you please."

Alistair nodded. "Did you really set his hair on fire once?" he asked Jowan curiously.

Both mages grinned. "Yes," Jowan said. "When I was newly arrived at the tower and still learning to control my powers. I was supposed to be trying to light a candle, and somehow got distracted at the wrong moment and lit up his hair instead."

"Good thing Mara was there," Owen said placidly. "She put it out. I had a very uneven haircut for a few months afterwards though."

Mara returned just then with food for herself and Owen, and climbed into her usual perch on his lap, handing him his share of bread, cheese and dried fruit. "What are we talking about now?" she asked.

"Hair," Jowan said. "And the impromptu haircut I once gave Owen."

Mara grinned. "He needs another," she said.

"Hey!" Owen exclaimed. "No one touches the hair! Especially not you, Mara, not after what you did to your own," he added, frowning at her and reaching to cup one hand over her scalp.

She sniffed. "It kept getting in my face," she complained. "And it was _hot_ and sticky and too heavy, and I kept sitting on it."

"It was beautiful hair though," Jowan told her.

"Maybe, but it was annoying me," she said. "This is so much easier to look after."

"But I _liked_ looking after your hair," Owen said plaintively, and pouted at her.

She laughed, then smiled fondly at him. "Okay, so I liked that too. Anyway, back on topic, you really do need a trim, Owen... you're getting all shaggy and haystack-like again."

"Fine, but _you're_ not doing it, and having gone under Jowan's scissors once before, neither is he."

"Hey! I'll have you know I've gotten a lot better at barbering since then," Jowan protested around a bite of bread.

Mara eyed him thoughtfully, then shook her head. "I wouldn't trust you either, You'd probably think it was funny to do something strange with his hair."

She looked thoughtfully at Alistair's hair, then at Zevran's. "Zevran – do you cut your own hair?" she asked curiously.

He sat up, looking pleased at her attention. "As a matter of fact, I do," he acknowledged.

"What about it, Owen?" she asked, craning her head around to look up at her friend.

He gave her an inscrutable look, then looked over at Zevran and shrugged. "His hair _is_ beautifully kept," he agreed. "I suppose I can trust him not to do anything too hideous to mine."

"Good. Think you can neaten him up later, Zevran? After supper maybe?"

"Of course, my dear, whatever you wish," Zevran said, bouncing to his feet to bow in her direction. "I will be pleased to assist."

"Wonderful," she said, and gave him a pleased smile.

* * *

><p>Owen's new outfit proved far superior to his robes over the course of the afternoon; he didn't get his clothes caught up on anything, and only had to worry about keeping his staff out of the way of things. They had one nasty encounter in mid-afternoon with a party of darkspawn, during which Mara and Owen contributed their full share to the fight, Mara blasting out ice spells while Owen backed up Wynne on healing and worked an enchantment that made everyone's weapons more effective. All of which made Arren very pleased over their addition to the party.<p>

In early evening they reached the place he wanted to camp, a spot familiar to himself, Alistair, Morrigan and Wynne from one of their previous journeys through the forest. "I was hoping the rhyming tree would still be here," he said, frowning at a spot near where a stream curled around the base of one of the rare forest giants, bridged by a crude wooden bridge. "If anyone in this forest could tell us more about these werewolves the Dalish mentioned, it would have been him."

"I hope you don't plan to visit the hermit again instead," Alistair said anxiously.

Arren shook his head. "As I doubt the crazy old mage will have become any more sane or understandable while we've been away, no, I don't plan on it," he said. "All right, set up camp, we'll stay here overnight and then head further east tomorrow."

"What's a rhyming tree?" Jowan asked Alistair as the two of them began gathering firewood.

"Remember that sylvan we saw earlier today? Like one of those, but bigger. And smarter. He talks. Actually, that's who we got that staff you use from," he added, nodding toward where Jowan's staff lay resting against their packs. "There's a crazy apostate who lives not too far from here, and he'd stolen something from the tree. We got it back for him – amazingly without having to kill anyone to do so, which seems to be pretty rare in this whole doing-favours-to-get-answers line of work – and the staff was part of the reward from him."

"A talking tree? Really?" Jowan said. "That must have been... pretty strange."

"Stranger than you think, I bet. He talked in rhymes."

Jowan grinned. "You mean he was a poe..."

"_Don't_ say it!" Alistair groaned. "I hate puns."

"Unless you're the one making them."

"Well, yes," Alistair agreed with an affable grin.

* * *

><p>After the meal Zevran found himself having to fulfil his earlier promise to cut Owen's hair. The mage was so tall that even with him sitting on the ground, Zevran had to alternate between standing and kneeling upright to put himself at a good height relative to the mage's head. Mara had already reclaimed the shirt he'd been wearing to begin modifying it to fit him better, so the mage was dressed in just his borrowed baggy leggings and soft boots.<p>

Zevran was mildly surprised by his physical appearance, now that he wasn't hidden away under multi-layered robes or the voluminous shirt. His shoulders were wider than Zevran's own, his lanky appearance more due to his extreme height than to any real gauntness.

He spent a few minutes combing Owen's hair straight first. It was nice hair, clean and thick. The mage didn't cut it enough, hence the shagginess, but clearly he made some effort to keep care of it properly apart from that. Owen sat quietly as he worked his way around the man, head tilted forward. Not at all fidgety, which was good to see; cutting hair evenly could be difficult enough as it was without the person wiggling around.

Mara sat nearby, working on the shirt and keeping an eye on the two men. Her needle flashed as she worked it in and out of the fabric gathered in her lap. She had very nimble fingers, Zevran found himself thinking admiringly, then turned his attention back to his own work.

"Do you have a preference as for length?" he asked Owen.

Owen shrugged. "Not really, other than long."

Zevran nodded, and picked up the scissors, then began work on trimming the hair, evening the ragged ends in back and trying to make it curve smoothly on both sides to the shorter hairs in front. The man sat silently with his eyes closed, docilely letting Zevran position his head as needed, so that it took only gentle touches to signal to him to move. Zevran concentrated on making the cut as even as possible, hoping that both Owen and Mara would be pleased with the end result. After a while he stepped back, quickly ran the comb through Owen's hair a final time, then dusted some loose bits of hair off his shoulders and back, noting in passing that the mage had quite nice skin, smooth and unblemished, and remarkably pale. Jowan had been the same at first, he recalled, before he tanned. "All done," he said, and looked over at Mara. "What do you think?"

She smiled. "You've done a lovely job, Zevran," she said, and grinned at Owen. "You'll like it, it makes you look quite handsome."

Owen snorted. "Is that shirt done yet?" he asked.

Mara wrinkled her nose at him. "Not yet. You're just going to have to sit and wait. Smocking takes time to do properly."

He made a face back at her, then shifted position, uncrossing his legs and folding them up in front of him, wrapping his long arms around them. "All right, I'll just sit here and wait," he said, then turned his head and smiled warmly at Zevran. "Thank you for the help."

Zevran smiled and dipped a bow toward the two of them. "It was my pleasure," he assured them.

Owen's lips twitched into a slight smile. "And mine."

"Zevran? Are you done being a barber now?" Jowan called, walking a few steps toward them from where he'd been standing talking with Alistair, the two of them keeping an amused eye on the proceedings.

"Yes, I am, my friend."

"Could we do more dagger practise then? You promised you'd show me that block you used earlier..."

"Of course," Zevran said quite happily, and walked over. A sparring match, that would be just the thing to have Mara notice how lithe and graceful he was. Jowan passed his staff to Alistair, while Zevran scuffed a circle on the ground with the heel of his boot.

He was a little disappointed to find that Mara had her eyes on her sewing more often than on the sparring, but at least she _was_ watching, along with Owen and Alistair, Alistair's eyes pretty much glued to Jowan as the two of them sparred. Zevran hid a smile. He suspected Alistair approved of Jowan's learning weapon skills for more than just the reason that had started it – to give him a means to defend himself even when drained of mana – as the mage was also becoming increasingly fit and graceful as a result of the regular training sessions.

Owen seemed quite interested in their match, peppering Alistair with questions, and afterwards declared rather enthusiastically that he'd love to learn to use a weapon as well.

"I don't think dagger would be a good choice for you," Zevran told him. "A sword, perhaps. Alistair might be able to teach you."

"Oh," Owen said, sounding momentarily disappointed, then turned to look hopefully at Alistair. "Do you think I could at least try a sword?" he asked.

"Of course. Not tonight though, it's getting late already and I'd like to turn in early; it's been a very long day. Tomorrow evening, if we have a safe camp somewhere and the time to spare."

Owen nodded. "Thanks," he said. "I'd appreciate it."


	13. Many Skills

"Maker!" Alistair groaned as he lowered himself to the ground. "Remind me again why we agree to do these things?"

Arren gave him a twisted smile. "Archdemon. Blight. Saving Ferelden."

"Oh, right," Alistair said, and dropped his helmet and gauntlets to the ground beside him, then ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, making it stand up in spikes. "I _knew_ there was a good reason behind why we just spent three days crawling around in werewolf-infested, undead-infested, _dragon_-infested ruins."

"At least it was a small dragon this time," Jowan pointed out as he walked over to where the two men were seated. He turned and dropped tiredly to the ground between Alistair's legs, leaning back against his armoured chest. Alistair automatically folded his arms around him, carefully since he was wearing full armour. "How's Wynne?" he asked.

Jowan shrugged. "Mainly tired, that last fight when Zathrian tried to take out us and the werewolves single-handedly took a lot out of her. Good thing we had Owen along; he's a pretty decent healer. Much better than Mara and I, but then it's the right school of magic for him. We just picked up enough along the way to do basic healing."

"How is that, anyway?" Alistair asked curiously. "I thought mages usually specialized in just a single school of magic? The one they had a natural aptitude for?"

Jowan smiled. "It's all Mara's fault," he said. "Remember I said she didn't like to be separated from Owen when she was little? Well, he's mainly good at creation magic, and she and I are both primal. So she was supposed to be in different classes than he was, but since she'd have fits if he wasn't with her, their class schedule ended up having to be set up so she was with Owen in his classes, and he was with her in hers. So she picked up some healing magic as well. And then when I came to the tower and joined them, well, healing sounded like a very useful skill – more use than just setting things on fire or freezing them solid, especially since I had a real knack for a while there of setting the wrong things on fire – so I decided to try and learn that, too," he said, then paused, frowning thoughtfully. "I studied a little of everything, really. I'm not a particularly strong mage, but I know bits of almost every school of magic."

"Did Owen learn primal magic as well, then?" Arren asked.

"Nope. No aptitude for it at all. But he knows some spirit magic and a little entropy, enough to enchant weapons and paralyse our enemies anyway."

"Giving away all my secrets?" Owen asked, walking over and dropping to the ground nearby.

Jowan grinned. "Of course. Where's Mara?" he asked.

"She decided to keep an eye on Wynne. We're both a little concerned about how she collapsed at the end of the fight. She's not exactly a spring chicken, and all this travelling and fighting can't be very easy on her."

Alistair nodded. Sten and Zevran showed up just then to join them, the qunari picking a spot nearby to stand, listening to but not partaking in their conversation. Zevran stretched out on the ground between Alistair and Owen. "My aching head," the assassin groaned. "I would never have believed that I would be knocked out by a _tree_, of all things. Underground!"

Owen frowned. "Your head shouldn't still be hurting," he said. "Let me see."

Zevran rolled to his knees, wincing at the motion. Owen leaned over and reached out, cupping his hands around the assassin's head, and concentrated, a faint glow springing out around them. He held them in place for a moment, thumbs massaging little circles against Zevran's temples, then smiled slightly as he moved his hands away and sat back again. "You had a bit of a concussion. Wynne must have missed noticing it when she revived you. How's your head feel now?"

"Much better," Zevran said, sounding relieved, and nodded his head to the mage. "You have my thanks."

Owen smiled warmly at him, then looked around the group. "Oghren making supper?" he asked.

"Yes," Zevran said. "He's reheating the last of the never-ending stew, which I fear is perilously close to ending yet again, unless we have some luck with hunting on the way back to the Dalish camp. We'll need to pick up more supplies anyway, when we return to tell them of Zathrian's fate."

Arren nodded. "I still can't believe what he did," he said, frowning in disapproval. "He was a Keeper, yet he allowed his own people to be changed into mindless beasts and _killed_ out of his desire for vengeance! The gods only know how many innocents fell victim to that curse in the centuries since he first cast it, humans and elves both."

"People will do many terrible things out of anger, if they feel betrayed, or want revenge," Zevran said softly. "And all too often only come to understand the consequences of their actions much later, if ever. I think it is part of why people say 'revenge is a dish best served cold' – things done in the heat of anger are too often things you will regret later."

"I don't think Zathrian's anger ever cooled, not even once since his children died," Arren said, frown deepening. "I think he went mad when it happened, and the thing that frightens me most is _no one ever noticed_; or if they did, they dismissed it. Not his people, not the other Keepers, no one."

"At least he's been stopped now," Alistair said.

"Not soon enough," Arren said, and sighed. "I think I'll be sending a message to Marethari about this. More than just Lanaya should know of what happened here; it is something all the keepers should learn of, and I trust Marethari to see that the word is properly spread."

* * *

><p>Zevran leaned against a tree, watching Mara sitting by the fire with Wynne, a swath of fabric spread over their laps, the two women talking quietly as they worked together on sewing something for Owen. So far his attempts to gain her interest were going... poorly. He'd given up on trying to get her alone to talk; she was never far from Owen for long, and when she was, she was in the company of one of the other mages.<p>

He'd tried flattery to catch her interest, and she'd merely looked amused. She showed no interest at all in the beautiful jewellery they sometimes found in exploring the ruins, nor in finery beyond what she could make for herself. She had been very interested in some scrolls on forgotten magic that they'd found in the ruins, but things having to do with magic were hardly something he happened to have any ready supply of. He'd given her a handful of pretty wild orchids and ferns gathered in the forest one morning, and for a while thought he'd finally found something she liked. Mara had clapped her hands gleefully, and sat down to weave the creamy white blooms into a crown and necklet, then promptly bounced off to gift them to Morrigan and Arren, much to Morrigan's delight. She'd worn the crown of flowers the rest of the day, and looked and carried herself like a very queen while doing so. Zevran had seen her carefully wrapping the circlet of flowers in a scarf and tucking them away later; he bet the witch still had them, either preserved by magic or carefully dried. Not quite what he'd intended from his gift to Mara.

"Zevran," a voice said from nearby, making the assassin jump, hands going to his weapon hilts as he whipped around, feeling relieved to see that it was just Owen. For such a big man he could move extremely quietly, as silent as a rogue. The mage paused at his sudden turn, then a slight smile crossed his face. "Sorry," he said. "I forget that startling an assassin is probably a bad thing to do."

Zevran snorted. "Yes, potentially very bad," he agreed, dropping his hands from weapons hilts. Owen had looming down to a fine art, Zevran found himself thinking, as the man moved closer and leaned one shoulder against the tree Zevran had been leaning against. He had to crane his head way back to look up at the man.

Mara really had worked wonders with the clothing she'd cobbled together for her friend, Zevran noticed. She'd worked a wide band of smocking across the shoulders to either side of the neck opening of the old shirt of Sten's, gathering in the fabric enough to fit Owen's much narrower shoulders. The thin fabric fell in tightly gathered soft folds down his front and back, emphasizing his height. She'd trimmed the neck opening with a narrow band of dark blue fabric scavenged from one of his robes, and replaced the lace at the front with a length of gold cord from the same source. Sten's baggy leggings had been replaced with well-fitted ones of richly damasked fabric from one of his robes, the same dark blue as the trim on the shirt. It was a very attractive outfit, and went well with his blondish-brown hair and blueish-grey eyes.

He realized he'd been staring at the man without speaking, and cleared his throat. "Mara has done a very nice job on your clothes," he said.

Owen nodded, and smiled, glancing across the clearing to where she was working on more. "Yes," he agreed. "And at the rate she's sewing I'll soon have more than just the one outfit, which is a good thing – this will need laundering soon."

Zevran nodded. "Did you wish to speak to me?" he asked, wondering why the man had sought him out. He'd think it would be to make some complaint about his efforts to seduce Mara, except the man seemed completely unconcerned by them to date. He'd even seen him smiling in amusement after the incident with the flowers. Aggravating man! He himself would certainly never just stand idly by while someone tried to take away someone _he_ treasured. Of course, given Mara's complete obliviousness to his efforts to date, it might well be that the man merely felt certain that her attentions would never stray to another. Doubly aggravating, since as far as he could see the man did nothing to earn such devotion from the lovely elf.

"Not really, other than to remind you it's almost time for Jowan's lesson. And mine," he added, a smile crossing his face. "When Alistair promised to try me out with a sword, I didn't think it was going to take this long before I finally got to do it. Still, I suppose it's all to the good, those scrolls we found in the ruins have some interesting things to say about mages and weaponry. I'm itching to try out some of it."

Zevran cocked his head to one side. "Oh? Mages and weaponry? Is that what they were about?"

Owen nodded. "Arcane warriors," he said. "A forgotten branch of elven magic. Mara's deciphered it for Jowan and I, and we're planning to try it out. Or at least I am, I think Jowan would rather stick to weapon use that isn't reliant on having mana."

Zevran smirked. "He has his reasons," he said evasively.

Owen snorted. "I know," he said, then stretched, raising his hands over his head, rolling his head from side to side. His shirt lifted high enough in front to give Zevran a brief glimpse of his taut stomach, and the dusting of brown hairs running down from his navel to disappear under his waistband. "Anyway, we should go get ready," the mage said, dropping his arms and turning away.

"...right," Zevran said, blinking, and then followed him away. He heard a peal of laughter from Mara's direction, but when he glanced that way she and Wynne had their heads together over the fabric in their laps, whispering together about something. He wondered what he'd missed.


	14. Practise Makes Perfect

Arren and his companions retreated from the Dalish camp to their previous campsite further down the lake. They could already hear the sounds of mourning songs rising soft into the air behind them. Arren had taken Lanaya aside and told her the whole grim truth of Zathrian's involvement in the curse; he'd decided to leave it up to her how to break the news to her clan. She'd been horrified and shocked by the news – which overall Arren tended to believe was a good sign that the clan had not been corrupted past redemption by Zathrian's long leadership – and had said she would need to come to terms with the news herself before she was ready to speak of it to the clan as a whole. He had let her know that he planned to tell Marethari as well; there would be no keeping it secret, if she found herself tempted to do so once he'd moved on.

"We'll take a rest here for a few days before we return to Redcliffe and let Arl Eamon know that we've gathered all the allies we can with the treaties," Arren told the group. "It will take a while for word to be spread among the Dalish clans anyway, and we've nothing else pressing to do at the moment."

He returned to the Dalish camp himself after that – as little loathe as he was to mourn the man himself, he felt it politic to support Lanaya with his presence. Mara went with him, feeling that he should have at least one of them by his side and knowing the Dalish would be less than open to human visitors during their mourning.

Morrigan watched them go, then turned and walked over to Jowan. "With another journey to Redcliffe in our near future, you should practise your hound form more. 'Tis too many days since you last did so, and it becomes easier with _use_, not merely with time."

Jowan nodded, and turned to Alistair. "How about Mouse, you and I take a nice long walk in the woods?" he suggested.

Alistair nodded. "Certainly. Let's just try to avoid the bits with wolves, bears, undead, maleficarum and walking trees, shall we?"

Jowan laughed. "We can _try_, yes... I'd suggest you bring your sword just in case."

"Can we avoid the mercenaries too? And the giant spiders?"

Briar grinned doggishly at him and barked.

* * *

><p>They stuck close to the lake, Alistair walking slowly along the shore while Briar and Mouse romped through the trees and underbrush. When they disappeared out of sight for too long he'd stop, find a place to sit down, and wait for them to return. They were rarely gone for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch. Thankfully it was a peaceful walk, disturbed by nothing more exciting than the occasional breeze riffling the surface of the lake, or the mabaris starting up a partridge or rabbit.<p>

By mid-afternoon they'd reached the far end of the lake, well out of sight of both the Dalish camp and their own, and Jowan reached the limit of his endurance for the shift and changed back to his human form. He'd just returned from another dash after a rabbit with Mouse, so he was tired and out of breath, and sprawled out on the sandy beach to recover. Alistair grinned and sat down on the sand beside him, looking out over the lake before glancing down at the mage. "That looked like a lot of fun," he said.

Jowan grinned. "It was. Except when Mouse caught and ate one of the rabbits we were chasing. He offered me some. I can't decide which horrifies me more, how _gross_ watching a hound eat raw game is, or how delicious it looked and smelled to me-as-Briar."

Alistair laughed, then leaned over and kissed Jowan gently, just a brush along the lips and the littlest tickle with his tongue.

"Mmm, nice," Jowan said, smiling back up at him as he withdrew.

"How about we strip down..." Alistair said, voice low and husky, and glanced furtively around. "...and go swimming!"

Jowan laughed at the teasing look on Alistair's face. "All this lovely privacy and _that's_ what you want to do?" he asked plaintively.

Alistair grinned back at him. "Yes," he said. "Do you remember that time on the way from Denerim to Lake Calenhad, when all of us went swimming together and had the cattail fight?"

Jowan smiled warmly. "Yes. Maker, that was a lot of fun! Why?"

"Oh, just... I think that was when I first became aware of just how _aware_ of you I was. I caught myself admiring your ass while you were bathing," he admitted, blushing a little. "Surprised me, scared me more than a little too. I'd... never been attracted to a man before."

Jowan snorted, and smiled warmly at Alistair. "I think I started noticing how aware of you I was not very much before that," he admitted in turn. "The fight with the darkspawn the day before. At the end of the fight, you were standing there, dripping with gore, grinning, and just so... well, I think I figured out about then why Owen had such a thing for strong men in armour," he finished, grinning widely. "Seeing you naked in the pond the next day only confirmed for me that I was feeling more than a little attracted to you. Good thing the water was relatively cold."

Alistair smiled in amusement. "Your friend's tastes seem to have changed a little. Or am I misreading him?"

Jowan shrugged and smiled. "I think the only person misreading him is our favourite assassin. You can't say that Zevran isn't a strong man though. And he does wear armour, even if it's made of leather, not that horrible heavy steel stuff _you_ wear."

"Hey! My armour's not horrible!" Alistair pouted, then looked thoughtful. "I wonder how long it will take to have that silverite set we collected from those revenants refurbished so I can wear it. Not long, I hope... Maker, but it's a glorious set."

Jowan snorted. "Here we are, lying on a warm sandy beach with no one around for miles, and all you can think of is _armour!_"

Alistair grinned. "It's some seriously sexy armour," he said, then poked Jowan in the ribs with his finger. "Come on, let's get in that lake. I have a fantasy or two I'd love to fulfil, featuring you and me bathing together."

Jowan grinned and sat up, and started tugging at the laces of his shirt. "I might have one or two of those myself, truth be told."

"Let's see how many we can take care of before we have to head back to camp then."

* * *

><p>Jowan groaned as he tiredly stripped off his clothing again. "Remind me next time we have a bright idea like that just how long a walk it is back to camp. Especially when I already tired <em>before<em> we started."

Alistair laughed. "Poor little mage. It didn't tire _me_ out."

"_You_ hadn't just spent several hours working a continuous spell while racing around exercising heavily. And you've got that damned Grey Warden stamina on your side," Jowan groused.

"Still got it on my side, too," Alistair said, grinning sheepishly.

Jowan glanced over and down. "Again? Are you trying to kill me?"

"Only in the best possible way."

"Liar. All right, but you have to do all the work, I'm too tired."

Alistair snorted, then smiled. "You could always tell me no, you know."

Jowan ducked his head, lips twitching in a rueful smile. "I might kind of like when you keep going. It's... nice."

"_Nice?_ Only nice?"

He laughed. "Okay, better than nice actually. You do everything so slow and gentle and... it's just _nice_."

Alistair smiled warmly at him. "Come here then," he growled softly, turning on his left side and patting the bedroll in front of him. "Spoon up against me."

Jowan did as told, curling up on his side as well. Alistair stretched to reach their backpacks nearby, and poured a little oil on his hand, then reached down between them, smoothing some over his ready erection before beginning to work his fingers into Jowan's rear. "You're still pretty loose," he remarked.

"Not surprising, considering how energetic we were earlier," Jowan said, then shuddered and hissed as Alistair's fingers stroked against just the right spot deep inside.

For a minute or two they were both silent, apart from Jowan's occasional little sounds of pleasure as Alistair prepared him. "All right, lift your leg a little," Alistair murmured, tapping one finger against Jowan's right thigh. He moved around a little to get the angle right, then slowly pressed forward, sliding into place. "You can lower it again," he panted out. He adjusted their position slightly, so Jowan's head was resting comfortably on his own outstretched left arm, then reached across to wrap his oiled hand around Jowan's erection. "Ready?"

Jowan gave a pleased little hum of assent, and he began to move, just a slow rocking of his hips that moved him a little in and out of Jowan, matching the motion of himself inside Jowan with longer strokes of his hand around him. As spent as they both had been earlier, it was a pleasantly languorous time as they rocked gently together, a long, slow build of sensation, of oiled flesh gliding against oiled flesh. Jowan was beginning to make frustrated mewls of pleasure before Alistair felt his own orgasm approaching. He picked up the stroke, gripping Jowan a little firmer and rubbing his thumb in circles against his moist tip.

Jowan lifted his hand to his mouth and bit down on it, muffling his cries of pleasure as he started to come. Alistair bent his left arm around him and smoothly rolled over onto his back, Jowan atop him, gravity helping to seat them a little more tightly together, and went over the edge as well as he felt Jowan's flesh quivering around his own. He groped for a cloth, and wiped up the mess on Jowan's stomach first, then between them as he slid out, before rolling them back onto their sides for sleep.

"Nice?" he asked, unable to keep an amused note out of his voice.

"Very," Jowan breathed out, eyes already fluttering shut.

"Good."


	15. Challenges

Jowan and Zevran sat on the ground under a tree, watching Owen and Alistair sparring after finishing their own training match, both stripped down to just their leggings. Sten sat off to one side, sharpening Asala and watching as well.

"He moves quite well, for a mage," Zevran observed, watching Owen awkwardly block an attack by Alistair and then skip backwards a few steps. "He might do reasonably well with the sword, once he learns how to wield it."

Jowan nodded in agreement. "I'm surprised he's trying a sword, daggers were more his style."

Zevran looked at Jowan, puzzled. "I thought he had no background with weapons? He is a mage, yes?"

Jowan laughed. "He knows daggers, or at least he used to," he assured the perplexed assassin. "He was a pickpocket in Denerim before his powers manifested. Wretched little street-rat and cut-purse, the way he tells it."

"Oh? I was not aware," Zevran said, and looked intently at the mage, watching him more closely. "That also explains why he moves so quietly most of the time."

Jowan nodded agreement. "I think he's kept up a few of his skills – picking locks and pockets, mainly, though more as a party trick than anything else. But his skills are likely rusty; his daggers were taken away before he was sent to the tower, and there was no way to replace them there. It's been ages since the Circle encouraged tower mages to have any skills outside of magic. Easier to control us that way, I guess," he added bitterly. "One good holy smite and we're helpless."

"How many years since he last fought with daggers, then?" Zevran asked curiously.

Jowan frowned in thought. "At least fifteen; he's a lot older than Mara and I."

Zevran grunted, and settled back, eyes slitting in thought as he watched the mage dancing away from another thrust of Alistair's sword, then launch a credible attack of his own. "_You_ are one sneaky bastard," he muttered after a few minutes.

"Pardon?" Jowan asked distractedly.

"Oh, nothing. Merely thinking aloud," Zevran assured him, smiling toothily.

* * *

><p>Zevran ghosted through the forest, following the tall mage down toward the lake. Owen had worked up quite the sweat during his bout with Alistair, and decided to take advantage of the nearby lake to bathe and wash his clothing before bed. He hadn't bothered to put his top back on, merely slinging it over one shoulder instead, leaving Zevran a rather interesting view of his nicely-muscled back. They were almost to the shore when Zevran misstepped, a twig cracking underfoot. That was the problem with forests, he thought in disgust – too much litter underfoot, and much of it the same colour as the soil underneath.<p>

Owen stopped at the sound, head lifting, then spun with surprising lightness, crouching slightly and looking around sharply. Zevran concealed a grin, and stepped out into view.

Owen visible relaxed, straightening up again. "Zevran," he said cautiously.

"Owen," Zevran acknowledged, dipping his head in faint salute, then drew and threw a dagger at the mage without warning.

The mage bent to one side, left hand snatching the spinning dagger out of mid-air. He didn't even spare a glance for it as he spun it into a proper hold, the handle pretty much vanishing in his overly-large hand, but kept his eyes on Zevran, expression wary. One of his eyebrows arched enquiringly.

"Let us spar," Zevran said, drawing a second dagger. He held it up for Owen to see, then tossed it, a high slow arc, which the mage also fielded without difficulty. He drew a pair of daggers for his own use.

Owen stood quietly, watching him. "And if I don't want to spar?" he asked cautiously.

Zevran shrugged. "Then you might acquire some interesting new scars before I tire of the sport."

Owen snorted, then dropped his shoulder, letting his shirt tumble down off his shoulder, flicking his arm casually sideways at the last moment so it landed on a nearby bush rather than on the ground at his feet. "I note that you're still in your leathers, while I'm half-naked," he pointed out.

Zevran grinned widely. "And you are a mage, and I am not. And can heal yourself, which I cannot. I think the advantage in this fight is still on your side."

A slow grin crossed Owen's face. "Perhaps," he agreed. And then moved, much faster than Zevran had expected, even after having watched the man sparring with Alistair. He cursed mentally as he ducked and rolled, dodging a thrust that would have left a quite painful score along his ribs had it connected. Clearly the man had been holding back in his matches.

And then there was no more time to think, just to react, as the two fought, ducking and dodging among the trees. The mage, Zevran was both pleased and displeased to note, declined to take advantage of the edge his powers would have so easily given him, and relied solely on mundane fighting skills. This pleased him since it kept the battle between them more even-handed than it would otherwise have been. And displeased him, since it meant the man was _still_ holding back, not exerting himself to his limits, and he wanted to see how talented the mage really was.

Of course, he wasn't properly exerting _himself_ yet either. He allowed a grin to cross his face, and began to truly fight, seeking to push the mage. He scored on him again and again, shallow cuts, mocking indications of what he _could_ do, if he wished. "You would be dead several times over by now, if I wished it," he pointed out eventually, skipping back out of reach of Owen's blades yet again.

Owen scowled. "No, I wouldn't be," he growled out.

"Oh? Yes? Then _prove it_," Zevran spat back, and danced back into range, knives flashing out in potentially killing strokes.

Owen _moved_, his skin blurring as an arcane shimmer of power sprang up to surround him. He ducked under one stroke, blocked the other with his forearm, accepting some damage so that his own dagger could flash out toward Zevran's exposed side. The assassin curled sharply away, the dagger-tip skittering across his leathers but failing to penetrate, and then dropped down, one leg sweeping out. A moment later Owen was sprawled on his back, one of Zevran's knives at his throat, the other pressed warningly to his belly, the assassin straddling him.

"You have some potential," Zevran said thoughtfully. "Though you are woefully out of practise. And with your size, the sword will still likely prove to be a better weapon for you. But you might profitably keep a dagger concealed somewhere, in case of disarmament."

Owen laughed. "You're a very strange man," he observed.

Zevran grinned. "And so, my dear, are you. And suddenly a very _intriguing_ one."

Owen snorted, then abruptly moved, flipping Zevran off him and rolling over, pinning him down, hands tightening around his wrists to keep his daggers at a safe distance. Zevran heaved, trying to break his hold, and failed.

"Brasca! You are too blighted _big_," he spat in disgust after several attempts to break free all failed.

"I hope you'll be enjoying that fact, eventually," Owen said, a touch of smugness in his voice. "I was beginning to think I was going to have to creep naked into your tent one night to get you to notice me," he added, smiling down at the trapped rogue.

Zevran paused in his continued struggles. "An interesting mental picture. It would probably have worked, too. So, are you going to let go of me any time soon?"

"Now that I've finally caught you? Don't be silly," the big man purred. He shifted his grip, pulling Zevran's wrists together, holding them easily with one hand with he removed Zevran's pair of daggers each in turn and tossed them aside, occasioning another curse from the assassin. "_You_ started this little game," he pointed out.

Zevran hissed like a cat. "Good, well-balanced daggers do not exactly grow on trees. If you've lost those I'll take it out of your hide," he snarled.

Owen laughed, then slid the fingers of his free hand into Zevran's hair, enveloping the back of his head in one broad palm, thumb and littlest finger wrapping around to press into the flesh just behind each ear. He lowered his head a little, then paused. "Bite me, and you'll regret it," he said warningly, then lowered his head the rest of the way, his mouth enveloping Zevran's, tongue demanding entrance. Zevran resisted for a moment, then relented and let his mouth drop open. And a moment later felt his toes curling tightly as his mouth was quite thoroughly and deeply plundered. He felt his face and ears flushing with heat as he moaned, and himself hardening quickly at Owen's expert handling of the kiss, mixed with excitement at how easily the mage had manhandled and subdued him.

The mage could hardly fail to notice that, even with several layers of clothing and armour between them; due to their height differences, Zevran's groin was pressed tightly against his belly. He made a pleased sound, and released Zevran's head to slide his hand down between them, palming over the bulge. Zevran moaned and shuddered, then bucked against his hand, as much as he could with the heavier man draped over him, anyway.

And then the mage moved again, with that deceptive speed of his, abruptly rolling away and to his feet. Zevran blinked up at him, too dazed and too _needy_ to even move for a moment. Owen turned away, retrieving his shirt, slung it over his shoulder again, and began to walk away.

"Wait!" Zevran cried, managing to struggle into a sitting position, though the current weakness of his limbs and the achingly hard bulge in his pants made it difficult. "Where are you going?" he asked, flushing in embarrassment at the half-panicked tone in his voice.

Owen turned, walking a step or two backwards. "Bathing. And then sleeping," he said dryly.

Zevran frowned. "And _this?_" he asked, nodding down at his lap. "You are planning to just leave me like this!"

Owen stopped, and a slow grin spread across his face. "Yes. I want more from you than just a quick fuck in the bushes, Zevran," he growled. "Besides, after all the time I've put into chasing you so far... I think it's time for _you_ to do a little chasing," he added, then turned and walked away.

Zevran watched him go, then lay back down and cursed quite creatively in the general direction of the treetops for a while, waiting for his erection to fade. By Andraste's fire, the man was _infuriating_. And oh-so-intriguing. Dangerous, strong, powerful... _sexy_.

He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet after a while, and began searching for his daggers, both the two Owen had disarmed after pinning him, and the two he'd thrown to him earlier. A lengthy search only turned up three of them, and he returned to camp in a moderately foul mood, between aggravation at the loss of the dagger and his own unfulfilled lust.

As he curled up in his bedroll later, he realized he was grinning broadly. And had to face it – he was looking forward to chasing after the mage. Especially since Owen clearly _wanted_ to be caught. He had a suspicion the reward for winning would be well worth the effort involved. And would be equally enjoyed by _both_ of them. It was the sort of game they'd either both lose, or both win.

The sort of game he was in the habit of winning, too.

* * *

><p>Alistair fed another strip of jerky to Briar, then looked across the camp to where Zevran was sitting by the pile of his belongings, finishing off the last of his own breakfast. Mara was standing just a few feet away from him, talking earnestly to Morrigan about something – probably still trying to talk the witch into teaching her shape-changing magic as well – and she might as well have been in another world for all the interest Zevran was paying to her. His eyes were instead locked on Owen, who was peeling an apple in a long unbroken spiral, using a knife that Alistair couldn't recall ever seeing in the mage's hands before. In fact, unless he was much mistaken, it looked an awful lot like one of Zevran's daggers.<p>

"I think the penny finally dropped for Zevran," he remarked to the mabari. "Looks as if this is going to be an _interesting_ trip to Redcliffe and beyond, isn't it?" he added, then rose to his feet, tossing the last bit of jerky to the hound.

Briar grinned and wagged his tail.


End file.
